


The Power Chronicles Volume I: The Seer

by Amande_sama



Series: The Power Chronicles [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: (kinda. pre-realizing emotions), Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Curses, F/M, I have made a whole fantasy world for this fic fear me, M/M, Necromantic shenanigans, No seriously strap in we're going for a ride, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot-heavy, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn, medieval politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 45
Words: 172,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22926064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amande_sama/pseuds/Amande_sama
Summary: David Washington's life takes a turn for the chaotic as a lost job, missing childhood friend and forced entry into- quite honestly- the most unregimented Guild ever gets him involved in a intricate plot filled with magic, memory curses, and grand political schemes.Sometimes, he truly wished he had stayed in that jail cell to rot forever, and sometimes he can't help but reflect on the grand adventure his life had become!
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons, Lavernius Tucker/Agent Washington, Leonard L. Church | AI Program Alpha/Agent Texas | AI Program Beta
Series: The Power Chronicles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647835
Comments: 201
Kudos: 122





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Welcome friends and fellow RvB:ers!  
> This is a story set in a world where there might be medieval ways, antics and housing; but where the language may or may not have a sliight modern tone to it. Because “Has thou wondereth wherefore we art here?” is nowhere near as fun to write and read as Tucker’s bow-chica-wow-wow.

_Enter the world of Tellusia, a world of magic, of knights and of quests. Enter a world of cruelty, of hatred and of war. Where nations battle over quarrels ignited eons ago, where they lift themselves upon the corpses of thousands._

_Enter the proud nation of Potentia, its legacy of conquest vast and gallant and bloody. Where its King is its savior, and where its armies is its symbol. Hear of the lands of Scania, a nation crackling with magic and mystery. Where the ground shakes with energy, and where the very nature protects its people. Feel the riches of Demec du Marque, the country of diamond and rubies and gold. Where the rich earth contains the wealth of a hundred nations. See the ghost cliffs of Nochkit off into the distance, the lonely isle of rocks and curses and rot. Where the living conjures the dead, where those without life can walk the nights. Smell the sands of Egeniella Isles, the archipelago of treacherous beauty. Where sirens sing sailors to sleep, and where its gods walk the clouds._

** Capitol of Potentia, Kingslight.  **

** Southern wall **

A faint smell of burnt wood reached the senior guardsman’s nose. He snorted and shuffled away from it, trying to find a more comfortable position on the chair he was currently napping on. Around him he could hear the quiet chatter of mice, the constant clank as the patrols thumped their spears upon the cobbled stone whilst walking the walls.

He smiled to himself, reveling in the knowledge that he had at least four more hours he could doze away before he had to walk the walls himself. One of the many perks of being the senior commander of the southern wall; he could simply sit and doze off in the tower while his men had to march back and forth along the wall, watching the sun set and rise. So here he was, in the tower, on a chair, relaxing and catching some well-earned rest before it was his turn to wander the walls surrounding the main gate. Walk around, issue the new recruits criticism for their ineptitude at holding their spears properly, walk back again. Rinse and repeat.

So it had been for over fifteen years in Kingslight.

The senior guardsman never considered himself to be a very patriotic man. He didn’t crowd the wagons whenever the royal family were parading around during one of the nation’s dozens of ceremonies and festivals. He didn’t visit the church as often as he should, to hear the priest issue their praise of their proud protector of the lands and ask the gods that their adversaries would fall on their swords in the always waging war against Scania. He didn’t bow his head at every banner of Kingslight, the white meteor across a field of stars, nor did he give his royal seers the correct amount of respect he should.

He wasn’t a very patriotic man at heart, and yet he’d allow himself a small smirk when he opened his eyes and viewed the King’s home, the immense white castle jutting out of the mass of rooftops not unlike an iceberg amidst the northern sea. The stars crowded the sky around it and the moon gave the castle a faint glow. It was beautiful, the Meteor Fortress, a worthy home of the most powerful royalties in the world. Not that the senior guardsman would ever see inside of it. But he could safely assume that it was a worthy castle to their King and his sons.

The senior guardsman yawned, stretched and sat up straight. The smell of burnt wood made his nose itch, and he rubbed at his nose to get rid of the smell. _What was that-_

Oh.

His eyes fell on a candle poised on the table he had used as comfortable setting for his feet. The candle was burning brightly, flickering and setting of sparks in every direction. A small collection of sparks seemed determined to prolong their short life by clutching to a corner of the table, burning the wood and adding a ringlet of smoke to the room.

He grunted and leaned over to snuff it out. He reached out, his fingers a mere inch from the smoke.

Then it hit.

The sound came first, a muffled thundering, like a giant wave about to crash into the side of a cliff. His head whipped up, scanning the room for the source of the noise. Second, came the sight of it. Out through the window the senior guardsman saw it. The castle looking distorted, like heatwaves bending off of it. The invisible wave swiveled and bent, twirling around the white fortress like a whirlwind.

“What in the-“

The ground shook and the senior guardsman fell, smacking his head into the corner of the table.

Dizzy and drowsy he forced himself up again, a hand a top of the table to steady himself. His eyes were fixed on the castle, the distorted heatwaves crackling around the castle. Then, it disappeared.

 _What sorcery is this?_ The guardsman grabbed his spear and swung the door open, joining the chaos of the men guarding the walls.

“What is happening?!” He screamed at the men.

One of them, a young man barely old enough to hold his spear properly, jerked back to his senior officer and saluted him. The senior guardsman bit back the urge to reprimand him for saluting him with the wrong hand, he allowed it. This young man was after all his own son, finally old enough to walk the walls with his father. He allowed him one mistake… once.

“Sir, it seems to be an arcane attack of sorts! We haven’t established what it-“

_An arcane attack? Had the adversaries of Scania grown so bold they would attack the Meteor Fortress directly? Had their council finally gone mad? Attacking Kingslight would send the entire army off to their shores!_

“Where is the King?! Is he in the castle? Are the Freelancers still guarding him?”

His son trembled. He hadn’t seen a day of conflict, it showed clearly in his eyes. They shone with panic. The senior guardsman would’ve normally smacked his palm flat across his cheek, giving him a stern lecture of honor on the battlefield. He’s never quivered in the face of conflict, and he refused to accept the fact that his offspring was shaking like a leaf.

“S-sir, we don’t know. The other posts haven’t lit the brazier, we think they’re safe-“

“The hell they are, boy! Did that heatwave look like something you’d consider safe!? “The senior guardsman looked up at the rest of the squad. “Sound the alarm, we’re under attack! If it’s Scania, you can bet your arses this isn’t the last blast of magic you’ll see tonight.”

The squad saluted in varying levels of accuracy and took off. Only his son and his lieutenant remained.

“I’m scared.” He admitted.

The senior guardsman swallowed his spiteful retort and settled for a very firm hand on his shoulder.

“Do not let me down, boy. I will not have you weep. Stand up, where’s your damn spear?”

His son sniffled and picked up his spear. Then he opened his mouth.

The sound of the alarm deafened whatever his son wanted to say, the bells roaring. The senior guardsman growled and covered one of his ears, pushing his son towards the tower.

He could see the city waking up at last, candles lighting in the windows and people swarming the streets like a flock of sheep, lost and scared. The masses needed to be controlled, and they needed to be led out of the city.

“GET TO THE BRAZIER!” He roared with all his might in an attempt to carry his voice over the alarm bells. “LIGHT THE FIRES! THE CITIZENS NEED TO LEAVE!”

The capitol might very well be turned into a battlefield should another airborne arcane attack hit the city.

His son nodded at the commanded, saluted poorly with his wrong hand again and took off towards the tower, to run up to the top and light the brazier. Should they be lit, the people would know that the city was under siege and that they needed to leave.

Then the very sky seemed to crack.

The world around the senior guardsman seemed to slow down. He saw the light at first, piercing and burning. A small ball of white light extending into an exploding cloud. He heard the sound, the wail of this plane of existence shaking as the energies pressed through the veil, a thundering roar of chaos. He saw the townsfolk cower as they all seemed to topple and stick close to the ground. He felt himself do the same. His lieutenant behind him did the same, his head hitting the sole of his shoe as he went down.

 _No. It’s not a spell. It’s an arcane explosion,_ his instincts screamed at him as he hit the stone, face pressed against it like it was his life-line. _Stick yourself to the ground and don’t lift your head until the press of the magic energy has passed. You’ll be fine, just stick to the ground_.

Another instinct hit him, but only far too late. His head shot up, overwriting his survival instincts that roared at him to stick to the ground.

He saw his son, at the top of the tower lighting the brazier, either not noticing the explosion of noticing it too late. He just managed to lit the kindle on top, starting a roaring fire, not making any move to lay down on the ground for safety. Again the world slowed, and the senior guardsman opened his mouth to yell at him to get down, to hide or else the explosion would-

A wave of heat struck his head so fast he toppled over, fingers scrambling to find the stone again, to press himself to the ground for safety. He could smell the burning flesh of his scalp, his short hair burnt to a crisp and swirling away in the wave of energy that washed over them.

He looked up, and saw his son being teared limb from limb. Terror shot through his eyes as the wave hit him at full speed, his arms stretching and flapping in the wave until they finally teared, blood drops turned to crisps within seconds. For a second, the senior guardsman could’ve sworn his son turned his head to look at him, to say something. Then his eyes steamed, boiling and bursting into flame.

And then he was gone, leaving only the smell of burnt flesh in the heat wave. The senior guardsman pulled himself forward.

“No.” He whispered. He grabbed at the layered stone and pushed himself forward, ignoring the heatwave that struck his hands and shoulders. They blistered and turned pink as he continued to crawl towards the spot his son had been at. “No.”

“Sir, get back!” The lieutenant behind him screamed in panic, grasping at his ankle. Then he cried out in pain, having lifted his hand high enough for the blast to hit him. He screeched and wailed, and the senior guardsman ignored him.

“No.” He whispered, like a mantra to himself. “No.”

“Sir, don’t!” The hurt guardsman pleaded.

“No.” The side of his right hand had burnt away, black skin stretched taught over the skeleton. Still he ignored it, and still he continued to crawl. _No. He’s not gone. No, he’s not dead._ His mind drowned in the pain of the burns, his field of vision giving way to spots of dark. Still he crawled. _No. He is still here. No, he is still with me_. His muscles ached, and his arms refused to pull him forward. He quivered, warm tears rolling of his cheeks. He could barely hear the guard behind him anymore, and even the crackling heat of the energy wave seemed to wave off, finally passing him.

“Sergeant!” The guardsman roared.

The senior guardsman looked up again, the dark spots blurring his vision. All he saw was the brazier aflame, the crackling flame shifting in colors. He furrowed his brow, the notion making his skin crackle in protest.

He reached his hand out towards the brazier as the flame turned into a deep blue.

_What sorcery is this?_

“Sergeant!”

His hand fell and his head hit the ground, letting the darkness cushion him into a dreamless sleep.

“Sarge!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, friends~~  
> This is my first attempt at publishing a fic for AO3, so I am still learning. Feel free to point out any mistakes or oddities that made you go 'eyo hol up' while reading, anything from something in the story to a tag that should/should not be there. I appreciate the constructive criticism!


	2. Wash vs. a particularly evil cup of tea

** Five years after the Arcane explosion **

** Capitol of Potentia, Kingslight **

****

This wasn’t the first time Washington had been in holding. As a matter of fact, this past week he’d been there enough times to scratch his initials into the walls with his nails in most cells the capitol had to offer. He knew the sounds of guards cursing at each other and accusing each other of cheating as they played their dice-games. He knew the smells of the putrid air, regurgitated ale and stale cell food. And he knew the feeling of the cold cobblestone beneath the thin layer of hay he used to sleep on. He knew just about every inch of every cell possible in Kingslight.

_Which is why_ , his ale-soaked brain concluded as a pebble hit the back of his head, _I know this is not a cell._

He opened his eyes, expecting to be greeted by stone ceiling and a small window creeping a small hint of sunlight into his field of vision. Instead he was blasted with the full force of the sun, and he immediately groaned and closed them again. The sounds were different too, his head seemed slow to pick up the noise and when he could finally hear them it was like being underwater. But he heard it. The sound of people. The sound of children, of dogs and cats and geese. A marketplace?

Wash dared to open his eyes again, if only for a second. He looked around, slowly, risking to upheave his last meal otherwise. He _was_ indeed in a marketplace. The outer walls were a distant sight in front of him, the blue flaming brazier and torches ever alit after the arcane explosion five years ago. Small houses were scarcely placed along dirt roads, centering around the marketplace he was currently in the center of. People looked down at him in confusion, then shuffled their children in the opposite direction, wary of the drunkard.

“Yeah, you run away. Flee in terror, hide your children.” Wash muttered, though when the noises escaped his mouth it sounded more like a toddler attempting to speak only in consonants.

The buildings were… moving. He stared at a stand in the marketplace, a baker displaying cherry pies and blueberry cakes and honeyed bread. The stand, and the delicious smell of baked goods, were slowly but surely becoming smaller and smaller. Like he was walking away from it.

He scrunched his nose as another pebble hit the back of his head. _Ouch_. His whole body was slowly but surely regaining its full functionality, the numb feeling giving away to the feeling of clay and dirt being scraped beneath him.

_Oh_ , he realized and craned his neck backwards, _I’m being dragged away_.

The person dragging him, holding a sure grip at the base of Wash’s cloak, was a man, about his age. Clad in intricate and rich-smelling mix of dark leather and mail, a light armor in the finest of qualities. A symbol donned his back, burnt into the leather with a poker and then colored in white. A meteor against the background of white stars, the symbol lined by a crown. The symbol of the royal house. Washington turned around further, ignoring the pain in his neck. Dark grey gambeson, the symbol and the uncanny painted metal pauldrons donning his shoulders and _oh no_ -

_A Freelancer_.

Wash growled.

Had he come to mock him? To drag him to his fellow top-ranking royal spies and fighters and point and laugh at the drunkard? His former colleagues?

Wash grunted and tried to wiggle away from the man’s grip. He expected a loud protest, instead he was given a yelp as the man lost his grip and Wash’s head fell back down to the muddy ground. Dirt and clay seeped into his ears and he tried to smack it away with his hand. Instead he smacked himself in the face.

“Ugh.” He grunted. The man holding him recovered, scraped dirt of his knee and looked at the drunk former Freelancer.

“I don’t know what the wench gave you-“ The man said, walking around and leaning down. “-But the next time you and I are out, hand me a pint or two of that.”

His face blocked out the sun and Wash struggled to adjust his eyes. His gaze wandered to the leather patch tied across his eye and he sighed. _By the mountains_ , he thought, _not you_. _If I wiggle hard enough, will I just sink through the ground?_

“Hraiish, Fbrehschlancee.” ( _Hail, Freelancer)_

“Hail, drunk-out-of-his-mind.” York laughed. “Can you stand?”

_Yes, I am in perfectly good shape to stand. That’s why I’m lying down in the dirt._

Wash snorted at that, and York laughed again. The Freelancer grabbed him by the neck of his cloak and continued to drag him through the marketplace.

“You’ll never believe what I heard this morning.” York monologued with sarcasm dripping off his voice. “-A guardsman walked by muttering about how a former Freelancer had gotten more than his share of ale and wine this morning and turned violent when refusing to leave the facility-“

“Didhn’t rehfschuse.”

“-And then spat in the guards eye when he tried to move him-“

“Hhe waas a dhick.”

“-And then he collapsed on the floor in a pool of his own vomit. Does that sound like someone you know?” York turned around to look at him. Wash scowled in his direction. “I immediately ran down, thanked the guard _profusely_ for his service and then grabbed this little drunkard by the neck and escorted him out.”

“Whhere arr yu tahhking me?”

“Up to see the herbalist. He can knock that ale right out of your head.” He added a mumbled; “Probably.”

Wash struggled slightly, but one drunk former Freelancer versus a current Freelancer infiltration expert? He had no chance. He settled for a discontent harrumph while crossing his arms and closing his eyes.

Another pebble hit the back of his head. _Ouch_.

After being dragged through what felt like the vast majority of the outskirts of Kingslight, Wash opened his eyes as the uncanny sensation of grass passed his shaven head. It tickled. He bucked and yelped, and York almost fell back on top off him.

“For the love of the King-“ York cursed and dropped his cloak.

“It thickled.” Wash muttered, the slurs slowly fading away. He moved to pull himself up into a sitting position. Then he turned to look at the domicile of the herbalist.

A small cottage, smoke swirling out of a large brick chimney. A door painted red, slightly ajar, windows wide open. Herbs and flowers crowded the small cottage in a neatly placed garden, overflowing with colors and sweet smells. Wash wanted nothing more than to run away from this perfect picture of picturesque folly.

“Pleasshe no.”

“Oh, yes. I am only a tad bit annoyed with you still, you’re going in there.” York grabbed his arm and hoisted him up. Wash clung to him like his life depended on it.

“Doc!” York yelled.

A small crash rang out from one of the open windows, followed by a quiet “oh heavens no”. Then the thudded noise of footsteps. The red door swung open and a strawberry blonde head peaked out from it, cautiously, like expecting a raid. His brown eyes fell on the odd pair, from the fully armored Freelancer to the drunkard swinging from his arms.

“Oh heavens no.” He repeated.

York grinned and marched towards the smaller man. “Need your help.”

“Oh, Mr. Washington.” Doc opened the door a tad bit more. “Is it the headaches again?”

York laughed. “Yes, but not for the usual reasons. My friend here drank himself into a stupor, and I prefer him with his mind intact. He’s a bit grumpier sober but at least I can understand what he’s saying.”

Wash swung at York half-heartedly. York laughed, and the strawberry blonde man jumped backwards from his safe position behind the door.

“Oh. I-uh I am unsure of whether I can be of service. I usually only help Dr. Grey with his migraines.”

“We’re about to find out.” York grinned and forced himself into the house, Doc scurrying off to the side.

“S-sir York, sir. I do not know if herbs will help this man.”

“Ah, he’s fine. Just dump some peppermint into his mouth and he’ll be back to normal, cursing and scowling in every direction possible.” 

Doc opened his mouth, no doubt to issue criticism on peppermint’s sobering ability, but sighed and followed them inside.

Wash had to scurry around in the darkest corners of his memory banks in order to find any recollection of the twitchy, scared man. With the words ‘migraines’ and ‘Dr. Grey’ he could remember a fidgety person standing next to him while the Royal Physician did her usual check-up. Though he had never stepped foot inside Doc’s house. The first thing Wash noticed was that the ceiling couldn’t be seen. At all. It was hidden behind a wall of hung herbs and flowers, braids of garlic and wheat obscuring his view upward. The second things he noted was the shards of a light blue teakettle scattered over the floor.

Doc caught him looking down at it and added nervously,

“I got scared when you screamed. So I dropped it.”

Something told Wash that this man would be scared by a bluebird sailing past the house.

Doc gathered the shards with a large broom, then nodded towards a bench near the door. York sat down, Wash followed. While Doc tried to locate something in the cupboards, then yelped as a bee whiffed by before hitting himself in the face with the door, York nudged him.

“What were you doing out drinking at the crack of dawn, anyway?”

He didn’t respond. He stared into the wooden floors, counting the planks.

“Wash.” York sighed and pressed his head to his hands. “You can’t keep doing this, you’ll end up killing yourself.”

_That is the preferable outcome at the current state of events._

“I know you’re angry. And I understand why. It was wrong, the King shouldn’t have expunged you from the ranks-“

“Didh you knoww?” Wash cut him off harshly.

York rolled his eyes and sighed. “You’re gonna have to be way more specific.”

Wash took a deep breath and tried to will the next sentence into coherency, “Did you know about Connie?”

Wash turned to his best friend to try and read him. His mind felt as if though it was swimming in syrup, all slow and groggy, and his eyes had difficulty focusing on York. He caught what he would describe as a guilty look, York biting on his lower lip, but that was about it.

“I knew.” York said. “I got the news yesterday. I take it that’s why you were out drinking your senses away?”

Wash didn’t respond and tried to focus his eyes to a spot on the floor. He heard York sigh and rub his face. “Wash, don’t do anything stupid-“

“Whyy not?” Wash said harshly. “Why not continue the trendh? I get my ass khicked out of the Freelancers, shhaming my whole house in the progress and _then_ my childhood friend dishappears off the face of the earth; why not thrigger another idiotic chain of events that is ultimately my fault-“

“Stop.” York said and pushed Wash gently with his right shoulder. “Connie’s disappearance is not your fault. She’s the Grand Seer, pretty damn important to the King. She was away a fortnight ago, and only _now_ has she been branded missing. Maybe’s she has a _secret mission_ or-“

“Shecret mission?” Wash repeated, raising one eyebrow.

“You know what I mean.” York chuffed. He turned quiet for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. “Listen, I get that you’re angry at yourself, and I get that maybe hanging around us Freelancers isn’t a fun reminder for you right now; just don’t waste your life away on this. Don’t go looking for Connie, not by yourself at least-“

Washington’s glower cut him off midspeech. York stopped for a second, then sighed again and raised his hands in defeat.

“I just don’t want to see you waste your life away, waste your talent for fighting away. You can still swing a sword with the best of them, you were a Freelancer; the royal bodyguard _elite_ , and a graduated fencer from the warrior’s caste. Guilds will line up to count you into their ranks-“ He stopped himself, staring at nothing while his mind was elsewhere.

Wash looked at him, puzzled. Somewhere deep down he appreciated York trying to cheer him up after the chaotic mess his life had turned into, but as of right now he was still fuming with anger the second the subject was brought up. His expungement had happened only a fortnight past, and news of Connie’s disappearance only yesterday; the absurdity of his new state of life was still a fresh wound. He’d wish York would stop poking at it.

“I’ll be back.”

York was out the door before Wash could open his mouth to protest. Doc yelped as the door was closed shut, a pouch of herbs falling out of his hands. He looked at the former Freelancer, then out the window to see York stomping away, then back at the former Freelancer.

“Please don’t leave me here with the drunk man.”

“Whhat now?”

Doc yelped again, muttering s variety of “oh dear”-s and “heaven’s no”-s whilst Wash sat there, biting his tongue.

The terrified herbalist approached him, pouch in hand. Washington stared him down.

_I am not going to start this conversation. If you want to talk to me, you have to actually talk to me._

“Do you, uh...”

The former Freelancer said nothing. Doc gestured at his back.

“Do you want to get rid of your dirty cloak?”

Wash’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh.” He moved to remove the clasp over his dark grey linen cloak, then dropped the whole thing on the floor. Doc whined and his hand shot out to remove it, but he retracted it and settled for a small sigh.

“I guess the floor is as good a place as any.” He looked down at the pouch. “I will make you some ginger and aloe-tea.”

Washington rested his head in his hand.

A fortnight ago he had an occupation everyone respected, he had a home and he had friends and he had colleagues. His House was proud of him, continuing the trend of the great noble Washington’s battle prowess and loyalty to the King. Now he had personally severed those ties with the country’s ruler. Now he found himself without a home, a calling and a general purpose in life. And _now_ he had a hangover, a temporary speech impediment and an incompetent herbalist who just yelped at water boiling in a pot.

He groaned.

Why did he do it? It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t even remotely worth it. All those hours he spent pouring over books and records about the arcane explosion, reading reports from the frontline of Scania; all pointing towards foul play. Something much more devious was going on, a threat to the realm that not even the King himself had considered. But when Wash presented those plans to the King, the royal said nothing. Then he ordered him to remove his Freelancer gear and never set his foot inside the castle again. Expunged from the elite squadron of fighters, because he brought forward a theory he thought would be for the good of the realm.

Wash sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and looked up to see Doc holding a cup of steaming tea.

“This might help cleanse you. Maybe. Perhaps.”

He took the cup, stared at the murky brown liquid and started sipping.

Groveling in self-pity wasn’t very productive, and he didn’t want to dwell on past mistakes he couldn’t make up. Again, it wasn’t worth it. Instead, he focused his brooding mind to his companion who had dropped him off and then run off somewhere.

_York said something about how I could find refuge anywhere, considering my skills with a sword._ He pondered that statement. Maybe he could. Travel the world as a sellsword? Or go back home to his family’s estate down south, that is to say if they would let him come back? He shuddered. Anywhere but back with his mother and siblings. Diana would certainly treat him well enough, but eventually his sisters would ask questions. Not to mention of his father ever visited... _I’d rather stay here and get trampled to death by a horse.._. _or get poisoned by herbal tea_.

He stared at the liquid suspiciously.

_If York have run off to do the stupidest thing he could’ve possibly done, then he ‘s most likely signed me onto a Guild. If he comes back and tells me he signed me onto a Guild, I will reboil this heinous murky spawn of hell and throw it in his face._

Sometime later, York burst through the red door, causing Doc to yelp and almost jump out a window.

“Good news, Wash. I found you a Guild!”

Wash said nothing as he stood up to pour his tea back into the pot. 


	3. He’s is a talker, not a fighter

** Capitol of Potentia, Kingslight **

** Lower slums, the tavern “Joannes and Jones” **

In the early hours of the morning, most people stay away from taverns. It’s the hours of the staff, where the barkeeps can clean up the vomit, the blood and the filth from the tables, floors and bars.

The Joannes’ and Jones’ was empty save from a single patron.

A short man, clad in rogue’s armor; knives, potions and shortblades donned most of it. His hand played dexterously with a coin, tossing it back and forth between his fingers, his other hand tapping the side of a mug of ale. On the left side of his head, his hair had been kept short, with patterns shaved into it like an intricate painting. A rough braid tied down the long, tightly curled afro on the other side. His eyes, a sharp light grey, languidly watched the bubbles in his drink.

Tucker yawned, rubbed his mouth and signaled down the barkeep to pay.

Then, a firm hand clasped his shoulders.

The short man froze, the ale in his mug sloshing and fizzing. A thousand thoughts ran through his head, many of them recollecting the ever-present squad of angry brothers and fathers of the ladies he’d… ah… visit on occasion.

“Uh-oh.” Escaped the rogue’s lips as he prepared himself for the inevitable fist.

“What is it with people I know and slumming around in taverns in the morning?” said a familiar voice as York sat down next to him. He shot a small smirk his way. “Did I scare you?”

Tucker sighed loudly and leaned back, happy to avoid a fist fight this early in the morning.

“You piece of shit. Do you have any idea how many guys out there are trying to tan my hide right now?! I’m trying to lay low!”

York smiled. “Uh-huh. How many women have you slept with- No wait, let me change that. How many women’s angry relatives and spouses have you pissed off this week?”

The shorter man rolled his eyes and took a big gulp from his drink.

The barkeep nodded in greeting to the Freelancer as he came up towards them. “Back again? What happened to the drunk assho-?“

“Dealt with, Jones.” The Freelancer said.

“Alright then. Anything else?”

“Just looking to pay, Joannes.” Said the rogue.

“It’s _Jones_. The Freelancer _literally_ just said Jones.”

“Whatever.” Tucker turned back to York as the barkeep walked to the back of the room to look up the bill. “What do you want, Freelancer?”

“Just curious to see if you can answer a few of my questions.” When Tucker’s eyebrows rose suspiciously, York snorted humorously. “No, we’re not interrogating you, you’re fine. I’m just curious about your Guild.”

“The fuck, why?” Tucker glanced at his teal cloak haphazardly thrown over his chair. His Guild wasn’t exactly very prosperous anymore, and while Tucker had more love for the chaotic little band of fixer-uppers than he cared to admit, it certainly didn’t catch the eyes of the Freelancers. “The Reds and Blues don’t usually deal with you guys?”

“It’s for a friend. He’s… no longer employed and needs to find a new job.”

“You’re shit as a job-wingman, dude.” The last drop of ale hit Tucker’s throat.

“Your Guild pretty much consists of misfits, yes?” The Freelancer said innocently. “What’s the harm in getting a new member? After Cappie’s gone, aren’t you guys short a member from the Warrior’s caste? My friend happens to be a fencer, light armor, sword and shield. Exactly the type you’re missing.”

Tucker’s eye twitched at the mention of Captain Flowers. It was an old thing by now, four years is a long time to mourn someone’s death. But the Reds and Blues, _especially_ the Blues, had a talent for dancing around the mention of their leader’s death. Regardless of how dusted the issue was, he didn’t like it when people dangled the fact in front of him like it was a piece of meat.

“So what?” His voice carried no small amount of venom. He cleared his throat, and continued as casually as he could, “We’ve been short a fencer for _four_ years, York. We can still go on smaller missions when we’re a smaller Guild, the less we have to leave Kingslight the better.”

“Consider this-“ York tried.

“Dude, it’s not up to me.” The rogue shifted further away. “If I show up to the Guild with a new member just like that, Church is going to bitch about it until I die. I’m not taking any chances. Drop it, find somewhere else for your buddy.”

He could hear York sigh and rub his temples. The other barkeep, a much bigger and brawlier type, came towards them with a slightly menacing look.

_Oh shit, did I sleep with his sister or some shit?_

Tucker instinctively looked around for quick escape routes, but one hand had already grasping his teal cloak.

“Hey-“ Tucker hissed, baring his teeth at the barkeep, who now held his cloak as if it was nothing but a dish rag.

“Not so fast.” The barkeep said.

“Uh, yes?” Said Tucker as calmly as he could. In the corner of his eyes, York was watching the scene with growing interest. 

“The tab, little rogue.” The barkeep growled. “You owe us over 200 astari.”

Tucker gulped as York whistled. “How much do you drink?”

The rogue glared at him, then turned to the barkeep.

“I uh- so while I can’t pay right _nooow_ -“

“Nice try. Pay up, or I’ll have the guards toss you in a cell.” A small mischievous grin crossed his face. “Perhaps I’ll let one of them know that _you’re_ the guy who snuck into his daughter’s bedroom in the wee hours of the night, ey?”

As Tucker opened his mouth to try and charm his way out of this situation, a heavy sack of coin dropped down on the table right next to them.

“Perhaps I can be of service?” said York, his tone as casually as if he was talking about the weather. “This little bag holds 250, it’s yours if you let him go.”

“Deal.” The barkeep said immediately, snatching the bag so fast it was gone by the time Tucker had blinked once.

“Problem solved.” York calmly said. He turned to Tucker. “I believe you owe me an audience at least?”

“Hold on.” The rogue grabbed the bulky arm of the barkeep. “My cloak?”

The barkeep sniffed, looked at the bundle of teal in his hand and tossed it. Tucker caught it perfectly.

“ _Dickhead.”_ He muttered in Snowtongue, making damn sure no one heard him speak it. He dusted the cloak off and fastened it around his neck. Then he turned to the Freelancer. “Yes?”

York opened the door for him.

“A friend of mine-“

“Which wouldn’t happen to be the asshole you escorted out earlier, right?”

_Got ‘im_.

York’s mouth opened, brows furrowed as he turned to Tucker. Said person just shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m a rogue, it’s what I’m meant to do. I heard you escorted someone out through the streets not too long ago. _Literally_ dragged him, even.”

York sighed. “Yeah, it’s him.”

“Wow, thank you for this wonderful gift, but I believe we’ll pass.” Tucker rolled his eyes. “Freelancers, thinking the sun shines out of their asses just because they guard the King. Believe it or not, we _have_ standards.”

“He’s a former Freelancer.”

It was Tucker’s turn to be confused. He stopped in the middle of the road so abruptly a flock of birds took flight as his large cloak turned and swiveled in the wind.

“Hold up. A Freelancer? The elite royal guard? And he wants to join a _Guild?_ A rag-tag group of ranks who do Guild missions? What the hell?”

“Like I said, he’s no longer a Freelancer. And he’s fallen quite out of sorts, as of late. I figured he’d fit in, you’re…” The Freelancer bit his cheek, smiling. “Well, you’re not the most regal and poised Guild anymore.”

“You’re not wrong but fuck you.”

They continued to walk. Tucker was still trying to get his head around it. A _Freelancer_ , hand-picked lords and ladies and such from the bigger Houses of the realm. Why in the hell would someone like that try to join a Guild?

“Did he get kicked out?”

York winced. “I wouldn’t bring that up if I were you.”

“Ooooh, so it _is_. I think Church was prattling on about a Freelancer who just got sacked. What was the name? It was something Potentian… _Frash, Mash-“_

“Hey Wash, good news!” York ignored him as he poked his head into a small cottage. “I found a Guild for you!”

****************

”Stay still.”

”I prefer my face intact, thank you. I already lost my eye, don’t need the other one gone as well.”

“I said stay still.”

“Is there a reason for this or is this new Whitemount greeting I’ve just now been introduced to?”

“I regret ever telling you about where I was born.”

“Are you certain you don’t mean _aboot_ where you were born- Ow!”

Wash retracted the cup after spilling a few drops on York’s hand. York let out a string of curses whilst wandering around in a circle. Doc watched the scene in horror, seated with his legs crossed and holding a steamy cup of another version of Wash’s murky hellspawn-liquid.

It was a relatively repetitive event, Wash threatening York with hot liquid, York responding with a snarky comment and then ducking as drops of hot tea were thrown in his direction.

Doc sipped on his tea and watched, the chamomile calming him down profusely. He would need to close the door and refuse service after the two Freelancers had left. He was exhausted enough as it was, and adding more customers to this would not sit right in his mind. He scurried away from the battle and moved to close the door, only to yelp and move back when the red wood creaked as someone else entered the small hut. A dark-skinned man in his young twenties, grey eyes with a confused twinkle in them, dusked off his teal cloak.

“Uh, should I come back after you two are done?”

_Yes, please,_ Doc thought. If _he_ was coming in for service, Doc would need at least two cups more of chamomile mixture to keep his temper.

“Actually, you can come in. I was just about to introduce you-“ York said, his eyes not leaving the angry Freelancer wielding his cup of tea like a worthy weapon. York reached over and grabbed the third customer, pulling him into the hut.

“How rude.” Doc yelped, wishing that they would at least _consider_ asking him if they could drag more people into his house.

“Washington, drop the cup; you’ve already lost. This here-“ He patted the third man’s shoulder. “-is Lavernius Tucker. A member of the Red and Blue Guild. Rogue’s caste.”

Doc saw how Wash’s eyes doubled in size for a second, a flicker of recognition flying past his dark grey eyes. He looked the man up and down, his eyebrows furrowed. Tucker didn’t seem to notice, he just waved at the former Freelancer. Then he turned to Doc.

“The Reds and Blues? Florida’s old Guild?” Wash cut in.

“The one and only.” Tucker replied casually before returning his attention to Doc. “You have any of that Devil’s snare-mixture? Simmons’ throat’s been acting up and he needs to…” He snapped his fingers while trying to find the word. “…Clear his airways or what other words you used when you gave him some.”

“Absolutely not.” Doc pointed a finger at the short man. It was the most threatening thing the strawberry blonde herbalist could muster. “I know you and Grif stuff it into your pipes and use it as a hallucinogenic compound. You’re not having any Devil’s snare until I say so. Or until Grif apologizes for urinating on my Demec du Marque garden figurines.”

York and Wash had stopped their pointless tea-battle and leaned back to watch the two shorter men argue. It was oddly reminiscent of what Doc had done just a few minutes ago.

“Listen.” Tucker said, raising his hands. “In Grif’s defense, he was hallucinating and thought those were little island imps with pitchforks coming to steal his toes. If I were him I’d defend myself too. But maybe not by pissing on them. I do have some sense of class.”

York snorted in the background. Tucker either didn’t notice or simply didn’t care.

“Also, I don’t care what super wealthy nation those figurines were from, they are atrocious. He was doing you a favor.”

Doc’s hand shot up to cover his heart in affronted indignation. “Well now you’re _definitely_ not having any of it.”

“Oh, Doc, just stop-“

“If I may get this back on track.” York coughed to bring attention back to him. He gestured towards Wash, who finally had the good sense to put down the cup. “This is the man I was talking to you about, Tucker.”

Doc thanked all the gods in the realm that the dark-skinned man was so easy to distract.

“So, you’re classed as a fencer?” Tucker reached forward to shake his hand. Wash grasped it tentatively. “Our old Captain was a fencer as well; I suppose we have a spot open. Our Guild Hall is up in the castle district. Much fancier than this lot. After this worthless weasel’s handed me my medicine, I guess you can tag along.”

Doc didn’t have the heart to glower at him. So, he settled for a mature stomp of his left foot and a snort. Tucker grinned at that; the white flash of teeth more predatory than friendly.

“My dear Doc, what do you want more? Giving us friendly advice on how to not use Devil’s snare, or to have a customer free evening?”

__________________________________________________________________

Mere minutes later, Wash was trotting along the short rogue, whom whistled happily as he swung his pouch of newly purchased narcotics around his finger.

“So what’s your story?” The short Guild member had to crane his neck to meet the former Freelancer’s eyes.

That caught Wash off guard for a moment. While news of his former employment, and more specifically why he was no longer employed, wasn’t perhaps the most enticing of stories, he assumed most of the city’s Guilds would’ve known about it. Or at least had a hum. But, as Wash eyed the bag of hallucinogenic in the Guild members hand, perhaps Florida’s old Guild wasn’t up to par anymore.

_York sure knows how to pick ‘em._

Wash grunted a response, but it didn’t seem to bother Tucker. Actually most things didn’t seem to bother Tucker.

As they wandered up the hills to reach the main road that would lead them to the castle district, Wash dared to take a closer look at the thief. Back inside the cabin, the second he saw Tucker, something in his brain clicked. A small voice whispered _‘Hey, isn’t that-‘_ and that was it. His brain didn’t register why the man was so familiar, only that he, in fact, was. It was very annoying.

Wash was so occupied with staring eerily close at Tucker’s face, that he barely noticed when the dirt road had turned to cobblestone, and that the small occasional huts had given way to rows upon rows of two-story buildings. It was only when a large shadow passed over him that he looked up, realizing they were right underneath the castle district wall, the painted white portcullis pulled up for the steady stream of people. This was the place where the level of opulence mixed. He saw ladies wearing bejeweled shawls glittering as they rode past on their horses, to elderly men clutching their poorly woven linen cloaks closer to themselves, shivering as whatever affliction they had wreaked havoc in their bodies.

He glanced up and ingested some of the fresher air. While the poorer people who lived in the outer district couldn’t afford any proper sewers, the castle district spared no expense in making sure its citizens were properly dolled up. As they continued walking, Wash cast a wanton glance at the castle way upon the hill. The Meteor Fortress it was called, the name due to it being built after a meteor had laid waste to the grounds around it. 300 years ago, the grounds were little more than wasteland, and the huge meteor crater had turned the flat surroundings into hauntingly tall mountains and peaks. Now it stood as the nation’s capital, with an impressive fortress built in its honor, and the crater itself a beautiful lake surrounded by gorgeous mountaintops. The castle was believed to be twenty stories tall at the very least, with perhaps half the amount of levels beneath the surface.

He loved that castle. He loved caressing the soft white stone as he walked the rounds with his Freelancer colleagues, making jests with North and York as passing guardsmen gasped at bowed slightly at their presence. He missed the gardens to the west, massive rippling fountains and streams lining the exquisite flora and marbled benches. He missed-

_Everything_ about his former life. That he would most likely never get back to. He felt the sadness bubble through his chest and had to bite his tongue to not allow a sniff break through his mouth.

The Meteor Fortress and its opulence was no longer part of his life. He had to accept that.

“Oy, fencer.” Tucker called.

Wash’s head shot forward. The rogue had continued to walk as he’d reminisced about the fortress, now standing far off in front of him. “Getting cold feet?”

_About joining a band of stoned misfits?_ He snorted. _I was a Freelancer once. I was the elite of the elite, and I have nothing to fear from some small Kingslight Guild_. A sarcastic inner voice that sounded suspiciously like the cruel twin of North whispered into his mind that he was actually the worst of the Freelancers. It didn’t matter, _shut it South,_ he was still the worst of the best…

He furrowed his brow as he walked, trying to make sense of the last thought.

“I am fine.” He assured the rogue when he caught up. “Just watching my surroundings.”

Tucker clicked his tongue. “Uh-huh.”

“Isn’t there a Guild Hall you’re supposed to lead me to?”

“I’m not a guide, mind you.” Tucker’s words sounded harsh, but the man still grinned, like a mischievous child. Wash had slowly started to get annoyed with that smile. “But still, follow me. Lest you’ll get lost _watching your surroundings_.”

_I like this boy less and less_.

They continued to march through the streets, reaching higher on the hillside every step they took. Every now and then they’d pass a building large enough to be a Guild, and Washington would turn slightly and walk in its direction only to see Tucker continue to trot up the hill. Just around the time he’d given up, the crossed a corner and came across a massive hall of to the eastern side of the main road. The building was built upon its own platform, jutting out from the side of the hill. It was enormous, with a mixture of painted woods and metal work. Two stories high, but with enough width to make Washington wonder if they were building ships inside it. Giant windows donned the main door, the glass painted to match the color scheme of the building. Warm colors, with a mix of dark reds, yellows and the occasional dark greens.

“Welcome to the Guild Hall.” Tucker chirped, nodding towards the massive building. “Home of the Reds and Blues.”


	4. Tucker combats very heavy curtains

** Capitol of Potentia, Kingslight **

** Guild Hall of the Reds and Blues **

****

Wash’s mouth fell open. Tucker chortled.

“Oh yeah. That’s the face the mighty Guild Hall of the Reds and Blues usually invoke. Welcome to the elite of the elite… _est_ of the Guilds, fencer.” Even as his sentence failed grammatically, he had that superior grin plastered on his face. Wash sent a quick prayer to the Mother of the Sky that he didn’t have to deal much with the younger man should he take up a position within the Guild. He wouldn’t be able to stand it.

Tucker had made it a habit to move on without him, and Wash scrambled to keep up, despite the fact that his 6 feet frame should be able to keep at pace with the 5’’5 rogue trotting about in front of him.

They walked the stairs leading up to the Guild Hall, and Wash found himself wondering how much money this Guild hade made on the city’s behalf if it was this large? Maybe it wasn’t the inept band of folk he’d feared it would be.

Wash stopped abruptly. Tucker’s never-ending chatter seemed distant for a minute as he stared at the large _thing_ donning the left side of the main doors.

“Oy, fencer.” The teal Guild member had stopped a few meters ahead, standing at the top of the stairs, eyes darting between him and the object Wash kept his eyes on.

This was a large Guild, if his memory served him correctly. Considering their hall’s size and all. They seemed a central band of Kingslight, they _should_ follow some regiments. And not…

Washington eyed the statue carefully.

…Put an obscenely large armor display out in front of their door.

He stepped closer to it. Standing at 7 feet at least, with a dark blue sigil at the breast, displaying the first division of the Guild. In its hand was a sledgehammer, a large blunt thing that looked like it hadn’t seen a whetstone since the day it was forged.

He heard Tucker calling out to him, but he stubbornly decided that staring at the armor display was more intriguing.

Why place an armor display outside where someone could steal it? Or attempt to steal it at the least, though the mere size of it suggested few could be able to carry even the heavy chain gloves. And why would they only display one side of the Guild, why only have a Blue armor donning their door?

The mystery of how the Reds and Blues still stayed a legitimate Guild would continue to baffle Wash.

When Tucker finally decided to wander back to him, before the teal Guild member could utter a word, he pointed a gloved finger to him and said,

“You and the rest of your Guild members are the strangest group of people I’ve ever seen.”

He expected a scowl or a snarky comment back, at least something negative response to his words. But no. The man seemed impervious to any negativity. It just bounced off of him like nothing.

He smiled and chortled a laugh. Wash hated that noise.

They walked forward towards the door, Tucker’s arm stretched out to gesture at the armor.

“We get that a lot. But, as I was about to say-“

“Why do you only represent one side of your Guild?” He turned his gloved finger towards the display. “I take it this represents the Blues. Like your odd colored teal cloak. It’s a tad bit excessive with armor displays up front regardless, especially ones so obscenely large, but to only include one side of the color scheme…”

“Yeah, that’s not-“

“Is there some sort of internal conflict going on that I should know of? Before I step inside and witness the Reds and Blues massacring each other in the main hall?”

Tucker had given up responding. He just crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows, clearly waiting for Washington to be done talking. But Wash had decided that it was only fair that the teal rogue got a taste of his own medicine. No one likes having his ear erode away because of chatter, and Tucker hadn’t shut his mouth at all from Doc's hut and up to the main street. It was time for petty revenges, and maturity in moments like those were highly overrated.

He locked eyes with the visor of the armor display. It was absolutely massive. The whole length of 7 feet was an impressive sight to start with, but the entire upper body seemed to be built for two men to fit into. Wash could probably fit his entire head into one of the vambraces if he really tried.

 _Men like that don’t exist_. Men that size, men that possess that sort of frame. Except for maybe one. A sour feeling clouded his mind for a moment at the thought of Maine, and he rolled his shoulders to try to rid himself of the thoughts.

He rapped the cuirass, the dull _t’waang_ emitting from it made it seem less hollow than most armor displays. He didn’t pay any attention to it.

“Where did you get this armor anyway? Did your smith craft it for a bear?” He rapped at it again, this time noting the lack of hollow noise. _What in the-_

“Please do not touch me.” Said the large armor display.

He froze, knuckles a mere inch from the chest. His eyes dug into the blue sigil at the breast. Behind him Tucker cracked a smug smile and leaned backwards, letting his weight roll on the balls of his feet.

“For a Freelancer, you sure lack common courtesy. Didn’t your Lord and Lady ever teach you to look at those you speak with?” Humor danced in the teal rogue’s grey eyes, and Wash decided that he hated that even more than the horrible chortle that was his laughter.

“Washington? The _armor display_ is talking to you.”

 _I have finally gone insane_ , Wash thought, the notion both terrifying and slightly relieving. _Now to turn around and leave this plane of existence and never come back_.

“I am a person.” The armor display responded matter-of-factly.

“What.” The former Freelancer said.

At the sound of Wash’s almost exasperated confusion, Tucker burst into laughter that annoyed him even more than the chortle. Wash would’ve turned around and given him a piece of his mind if it wasn’t for the fact that the armor display moved.

It dropped the sledgehammer casually on the ground – Wash could feel the ground shake, he’d swear it to all planes of heaven -, and moved one of its bear-like arms to remove its helmet.

_If this thing doesn’t have a head I will seriously investigate whatever herbs that inept herbalist infused in the hellspawn-tea._

The armor display removed its helmet, and revealed a sweaty mop of dark blonde hair peeking out from beneath a padded coif, intense dark blue eyes and a small lopsided smile that made Washington think of a small child.

The armor display opened ~~its~~ _his_ mouth.

“Hello.” His voice was blank and bubbly at the same time, a scary cheerful tone that belonged to a three-year-old. Which made the immense man in front of him even more of an anomaly. The giant waved sheepishly with his hand the size of a large pan. Wash didn’t dare to anything else than wave back.

Suddenly, Tucker’s annoying voice made itself known again.

“Caboose, what in the planes of hell are you doing here?”

“I am guarding.” The giant man beamed. He swiped some sweat off his brow. “Church told me to stay here and guard.”

Tucker’s brows furrowed. “Didn’t he tell you help carry the crystal-shipment once it arrived?”

“And then guard it.” Caboose finished for him proudly, as if he was being tested.

“Yes, while the men who carried it here installed it into the hut. Then you could go back inside.”

“But the crystal isn’t here yet. So I am waiting.”

“What is happening-“ Wash tried to chime in. Tucker held up a hand and groaned, eyes never leaving his much taller fellow Guild member.

“Caboose, the crystal-shipment isn’t here until at least nightfall. Church will find you when he needs you to carry it inside. You can go inside in the meantime.”

“I am waiting until Church comes back.”

Tucker took a deep breath and cursed something to the heavens. Wash couldn’t hear what it was, or maybe it was in a language he didn’t understand. He could count on one hand how many languages existed in Tellusia, and few of those nations were allies of Potentia.

 _Interesting_.

“Caboose.” Tucker was pinching the bridge of his nose while trying to persuade the large bear-man. “Church gave you the order _this morning_. Remember what he said he was going to do today?”

“No.” Caboose said cheerfully. Wash chuffed at that, then tried to hide it with a cough. Tucker sent a scowl this way.

“Church is down by the harbor for his crystal-shipment. Until late in the evening.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a few hours after midday now.”

“Yes.”

“So you’re going to stay here and guard the shipment that’s not even here until Church comes back? In other words, wait out here in the scorching heat in full armor ‘til nightfall?”

“Yes, I will wait for Church.”

Tucker opened his mouth and then closed it. And then opened it again. Then he swung out his arms in frustration and growled.

“There aren’t enough herbs in Potentia to calm me down after this. I might have to crack down on the pouch before Grif gets here.” He turned to walk into the building, then seemed to remember that Washington existed and that he had no idea who the large log of a man was. “Caboose, Washington, Washington, Caboose. Guild member, warrior’s caste; rank _Marauder_. Former Freelancer, warrior’s caste; rank _Fencer_ , now jobless and without a home.”

Wash scowled at him. Tucker seemed to have found his annoying smirk again and directed it towards him. Caboose raised his hand again.

“Hi, Mr Washingtub.”

Tucker guffawed at that to the point where he had to lean against the heavy door. Wash opened his mouth to correct him, but decided it really _really_ wasn’t worth it. He turned to the rogue.

“Are we going to go in?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tucker snorted and heaved the heavy door open. He turned back and poked Caboose’s shoulder pauldron. “And if you get cooked inside your armor, don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

Caboose’s blank look was the last Wash saw of the outside before he was unceremoniously shoved into the main hall. The door closed with a heavy, almost ominous _bang_. The sound echoed.

Wash squinted. Whatever light that was supposed to illuminate the hall were dimmed out. He saw the outline of heavy curtains off on the far side of the hall, but it didn’t help his vision much.

“Gods, why does he always leave the drapes like that.” Tucker muttered to himself somewhere on Washington’s left. “Hold up, fencer.”

He heard the shuffling of feet, a curse or two as the rogue bumped into something and the dull noise of heavy curtains being dragged. Then he was assaulted by light.

“Ouch.” He said deadpan and rubbed his eyes.

The hall consisted of several split levels, the middle of the room lowered by several steps. A rectangular firepit was built into the ground, layered by rocks. A table stood at the far end of the room, and it bathed in thousands of colors as the sun hit the large stained glass windows. The walls were covered in trophies and game, scrolls and pages were pinned to the pillars. Symbols were carved into large doorframes and windowframes. All in all, it reminded Wash of a specific building-type he didn’t expect to see in Potentia.

“It’s like a meadhall. Like a Scanian meadhall.”

“That’s because it is.” Said the rogue, who somehow seemed to have trapped himself in the heavy curtains. He shuffled and cursed and the curtains moved slightly, but had no intention of letting him go.

As someone who was born into nobility, Wash’s first instinct as a proper gentleman was to sprint forward to aid the rogue with the vicious attack from layered cloth. But as he took one step forward, he decided it was much more amusing -manners be damned- with the view of a cursing bundle of heavy drapes explaining the architecture of the Guild Hall. He crossed his arms, and waited.

“You see- fuck, these things are heavy- this _was_ built by a Scanian architect, so it’s not exactly your typical Guild Hall.”

“Uh-huh.” Wash bit his cheek and nodded.

“-Buuuut that was before Scania decided to murder the Queen and leave King Leonard a widower. So now, you know, people don’t exactly want to spend their precious time in a hall built by their enemies – HAH, there it is!”

He emerged victorious with a layer of dark green thread on the top of his head like a crown. He swatted it away.

“Instead of burning the building down or remodel it, we just made it our Guild Hall. The place is pretty fucking huge.”

“ _That_ it is.” Wash agreed and walked forward to look through the stained glass.

“Right. The door over here-” Tucker gestured at a door behind his-mortal-enemies-the-heavy-green-drapes. “-Leads out to the backyard. There’s another table outside in case you get tired of Church being bitter -trust me you will- and don’t want to eat breakfast with anyone. There are also some hay dummies, whet stones etc. We have two archery targets as well, but Grif never uses them because he’s a lazy bastard.”

He opened the door and left Wash to catch up. The Guild Hall’s courtyard was fenced in by a large stone wall, shielding the Guild Hall from the rest of the world and making it almost look… serene actually. It reminded Wash of the courtyard in the Meteor Fortress where he used to train with the Freelancers.

“Huh.” Wash walked across the courtyard to caress the stone wall. In his peripheral he saw Tucker pointing at archery targets to the far-left side. The left side of the courtyard was riddled with weaponry, everything from crossbows to maces were left carelessly on the ground without any care in the world. Wash moved to the right and came across and odd, one story building in a hexagonal shape. It lacked any windows and its surface was covered by carved in symbols in intricate shapes. He opened his mouth to ask the rogue, but the smaller man seemed to have read his mind.

“The crystal hut. It’s for those arcane weirdos, where they can cast their spells and infuse stones with magic…or do their weird magic-hand-gesture-ballerina-dance-thing. Whatever it is that Simmons and Church do; I never pay attention-“

 _By the mountains, he talks too much_.

“-And there’s the falconry mew for our eagle and the dog house for the wolfhound the Reds like to have around for some reason. Don’t pet him. He won’t like you.”

The fencer rubbed at his temples. “Uh-huh.”

“And yeah. That’s it. Grand tour over. Oh, and if you ever wonder where something is and where to find it-“ Wash turned to Tucker who had already begun to walk inside. He grabbed the door and turned to look at him. “-Don’t ask me, dude. I really don’t care.”

Wash scoffed at that. He opened his mouth to issue his own comeback, but was ever so rudely interrupted by a crashing sound and a series of foreign curses from within the Guild Hall. Tucker leaned in to take a look.

“Huh, guess the shipment didn’t take too long.” He nodded towards the fencer.

“Church is home.”


	5. ‘How to ineffectively keep a dog from chasing prey’ a novel by Dexter Grif

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see updated tags, we're doing some stuff!

** A few miles south of Kingslight, Oakpalace Woods  **

Most people would probably think that the man currently holding the top spot of ”Laziest Islander in the world woop woop” would spend most of his day lounging on sun-kissed rock somewhere near a lake, enjoying an ale or staring up into the sky until his eyelids betrayed him and he fell asleep. Then he would probably fall into the water for a ridiculously rude awakening, coming up from the water spitting and gurgling and splashing around as his clothes dripped.

Pure speculation of course. Grif had never _ever_ done such a thing. Ever. He wouldn’t mind it though, spending most of his time relaxing or staring up into the sky counting clouds and smoking his pipe was one of the best things he knew. But, sadly, it didn’t exactly pay the bills.

He shifted, the leaves roused and the branches groaned. He bit his tongue, grimacing.

“I’m not that heavy, you overgrown piece of-“ He seethed and smacked his palm against the trunk of the large oak. _There, I sure told it_.

He chuffed and shifted again, his eyes trained to the heavy canopies, waiting for a shadow to pass by. His legs had started to lose feeling where he sat, perched in a large tree at the edge of the forest opening up to a large section of open fields. One hand clenched a bow and the other held a fairly tight grip on a pebble. His target had been pouncing around for far too long, frothing and terrified and nowhere near the open fields Grif had wanted it to be. He sighed, and settled for counting the minutes hoping that the stag would pass him by again, either by running frantically or frolicking around looking for food, unaware of the dangers near it.

A rustle caught the hunter’s sensitive ear and he froze for a second, minimizing the sound of his breathing to utter silence. The antlers of a stag glinted gorgeous and fair against the background of the heavy oak forest. Grif dared to smile as the stag neared him.

He raised his bow but did not attempt to nock the pebble at the string, just waiting for a few seconds. See, Grif had a few hunting partners that too were in pursuit of the stag (which Grif had aptly named Hello-my-name-is-Fuck-Yes-Food, once the hunt commenced. His hunting partners hadn’t found it funny.) , and since Grif had so graciously won the title of “Laziest Islander in the world woop woop” he didn’t mind taking the more secondary role of hunting. His partners were to chase it around until it was exhausted so that he could finish it off with an arrow. Quick, clean, preserved the meat and most importantly held a minimal amount of manual labor for Grif.

So there he was, trying his best to lure the stag out in the open so that one of his hunting partners had a better chance of attacking. It involved a lot of pebbles shot from his bow as if they were arrows, scaring the prey and _freaking-hopefully-yes-please_ send it in the arms of its predators. It had taken them a while to track it, locate it and find a good plan of attack, as Grif’s arrows had only graced the beast and one of his hunting partners had been inadequate in wearing it down. So, plan B it was. Grif was going home with that stag if it was the last thing he’d do… plus at this point he felt as if though it was a personal offence that the stupid stag wouldn’t just fall down and die already.

He nocked the pebble, steadied his breathing and aimed. His goal was simple, hit the tree somewhat behind the deer and scare it into the open field. _Easy money, thank you ladies and gents please contain your screams, let’s go home and eat this annoying piece of never-surrendering-meat._

He loosened the grip and the pebble flew, smacking into a tree trunk not far off his target. And then something burst out of the bushes, a scarily fast shadow leaping towards the stag as it took off into the open fields, leaving Grif blinking as the dust hit his face.

Grif blinked it out of his eyes, came back to his senses after contemplating stag-in-one-place-then-black-spot-attacking-it-suddenly-not-in-same-place and he yelled out a discontent;

“Hey!”

He secured the bow under his arm, making it stick out awkwardly and hit the branches of his perching tree, and started to climb down whilst shouting insults at the black shadow who now hunted the stag far across the open fields.

“That’s mine, damnit, I almost had it!” He lunged from one branch to the other, swiftly moving down the tree as if it was nothing but a normal ladder. His gloved hands caught a low branch and he swung from it, tossing his bow in front of him, rolled into the soft musky earth and picked the bow up again in the span of a second. Then he took off into the open fields, shouting and cursing as his prey got further and further away from him.

In the distance he spotted the shadow again still in pursuit of the stag, though this time he was quick enough to recognize the long lanky legs and the shaggy black fur of the wolfhound galloping after the stag.

“LOPEZ YOU LANKY MUT, I TOLD YOU TO WAIT!” He roared, but the wolfhound was far too busy nipping at the tail of his prey to notice whatever colorful insults the human hunter had in store for the canine hunter.

As Grif ran down the open field, splashing into puddles and patches of mud whilst sprinting, he managed to pick up another large shadow hovering over him. It wouldn’t have bugged him that much, he was far too busy shouting at the Reds’ sighthound while not falling over or slipping into the mud, but this shadow seemed to grow larger with every second. Grif kept sprinting near where Lopez had managed to somehow trick the stag into running into what could only be described as a series of eights, and the shadow above him grew into a visible shape. A great wingspan sweeping across the ground in a scarily fast pace.

“Oh great, _now_ you want to join the hunt.” Grif muttered to himself between heavy gulps of air.

With a great whoosh that made Grif’s hair smack him in the eyes, the massive winged beast swooped down upon the stag, talons piercing the flesh as the stag bleated in pain. The golden eagle released its talons as the stag fell down on its side, where it was promptly attacked by Lopez the glory-stealing-wolfhound. As Grif neared the target, it gave one final bleat and then succumbed to its wounds.

“Aaw man, look at that. It’s throat’s ruined.” He groaned, forgoing his sprint for a much calmer walking pace. Lopez started to circle the stag, its chest heaving after the fast chase, his nostrils flaring as the smell of meat hit him. Above him the large golden eagle circled as well.

Grif procured a small pouch tied to a string and started to swing it in his right hand, whistling for the large bird of prey. The predator caught on and swooped down towards the hunter. He extended his left arm and readied his heavily gloved left hand for the sudden shift in weight. In a majestic maneuver the eagle landed on his outstretched hand, and Grif grunted and steadied himself. He procured a piece of raw meat from one of the many pouches he had hanging from his belt, and placed it on his right hand between its talons.

“Glad you could join us, lazy.” He mocked the golden eagle as it feasted on the small piece of meat. He walked towards the stag with the eagle still on his hand. Lopez sniffed at the underbelly of the dead stag, but the hunter growled a firm _no_ towards him and the wolfhound gave a snort and sat down again.

“Stop complaining, Lopez. Your little girlfriend here did all the work.” He said to the canine as he nodded to the bird. “Right, Sheila? Tell me I’m right.”

The eagle didn’t issue any confirming noises and Grif sighed. “Signs that I’m losing my mind nr 1: I’m talking to animals – Hey Lopez no, fuck off. No raw meat for you, Sarge will kill me!”

The black wolfhound snorted again, and if it was possible for a canine to roll its eyes and sigh immaturely, the hunter was certain he would’ve tried it by now. Grif extended his hand forwards and Sheila left the comfort of his gloved hand to roam the skies around them as he examined the prey.

The stag was in fairly clean condition, but the throat had been torn out poorly by the wolfhound – Grif issued a glare towards Lopez and was met with a low chuff, the dog’s probable version of a _fuck you too_ – and the side had a few unsightly piercing wounds from Sheila. Grif didn’t dare to scold her, she was pretty damn temperamental, so he just sighed and tucked a few locks of shaggy brown hair behind his ear.

“See, guys, this is why I said that _I was_ going to do the killing today. Just one shot in the heart and _bam_ , no more wounds. Just a little bit of time tracking it down and then we would be finished.”

He was pretty damn sure that the dog and the bird shared an exasperated look between each other as he lectured them. 

“Lopez.” He called, and said animal graced him with yet another exasperated look. “Go get Simmons. I can’t exactly carry this across my shoulders.”

Another chuff.

“Ok, I could but I _really_ don’t want to. And he’s probably in the camp reading again, let the poor soul enjoy some manual labor for once.”

The animals shared a look again and he was pretty sure something predatory ( _haha, yes, hilarious pun,_ he smiled to himself) gleamed in their eyes. If they could rub their hands together and giggle maliciously, again, they probably would’ve tried it by now.

Lopez finally deemed the issue worthy of his attention and the wolfhound stood up slowly and stretched as he readied himself for the Fetch-the-Nerd-Sorcerer-who-hates-nature-quest.

Then his head promptly fell off, as if it had been held on by two lines of thread. The body of the wolfhound collapsed into the ground and the head rolled around in the crisp morning grass, drops of dew gracing the head.

Now, if someone other than Grif – or frankly anyone from the Reds – had been there to witness the sudden decapitation out of absolutely nowhere, they probably would’ve shrieked, put their hands to their foreheads and fainted dramatically into the mud. But Grif wasn’t particularly worried. Or amused.

“Pheele’s breath.” He cursed and flailed his arms at the cadaver. “Why you gotta be like that?! I knew you two planned something, Simmons’ gonna kill me.”

He pointed at Sheila as he circled him. “You. Go to Simmons, he’s the only one who can resurrect him. _Again_.”

The bird seemed content with pretending he didn’t exist. He gritted his teeth.

“Laugh it up, feathers. You don’t want to do it? I’m just gonna leave him here, I can’t carry him either.”

Silence.

“Ok, I could but I _really_ don’t want to. Just get him, he’ll get Lopez up and running in no time….For like the third time this week.”

******

Grif could hear Simmons way before he could see him. He had pretty good ears after all, a hunter needed his headholes 100 % tuned in at any given moment. Especially when it was regarding that particular mage.

The hunter yawned and sat up straighter, after deciding that standing up was just too much work, and smiled slightly at the sight of the Guild eagle circling around an area of the forest. Then he heard a few yelps as the canopies rustled and crackled. Then he saw a bundle of maroon and grey emerging from the heavy bushes. Sheila swooped down and flew past said bundle of colors, who jumped into the air and cursed. Grif cackled, and sincerely hoped that the mage couldn’t hear him.

“What the hell?” Said Simmons the second he reached the hunter, the deer and the decapitated wolfhound. Sheila settled in on the ground a few meters away.

Grif just shook his shoulders and gave a non-committal;

“Meh.”

“Don’t just ‘ _meh’_ at me you lazy ass, what did you do to Lopez?”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Distrusting chartreuse eyes met the hunter’s own chocolate brown.

“Honest.” Grif said and put his hand on the right side of his chest.

“Wrong side, dumbass.”

“Love you too.”

“Ugh, fine.” Said the mage as he kneeled down to assess the wolfhound. He absent-mindedly scratched at his head and blew some auburn hair strands from his face. His fair fingers poked gently at the wolfhound.

Grif clicked his tongue loudly. “Can we get going, we have a deer to drag home. Just resurrect him and-“

“Shhhhhhhhaveyoulostyourmind?!” The mage shrieked. “You know damn well necromancy is illegal. Don’t say that out loud, what if someone hears you?”

The sound of crickets echoed around them as Grif made a big show of looking around the vast emptiness of the open fields.

“Shut up.” Simmons muttered.

“I didn’t say a word, dude.” 

“Just…” Simmons bit his cheek and rolled up his large grey sleeves. “…Just shut up. I can’t concentrate if you’re talking.”

“Well what else am I supposed to do? That’s all we ever do. Seriously, how the hell are we still a legitimate guild when we literally do _nothing_ all day?”

Simmons glared at the hunter. Small, black tendrils of smoke began to pour from his fingers. The ground seemed to be getting more colder and the very air itself felt odd and thin. Grif raised his hands in defeat, and the mage put his hands on the wolfhound.

“Let’s get you up and running again, I guess.” Simmons sighed as the ground around the dead body started to emit the same black, heavy smoke.

_Rules for Dexter Grif no 1: Don’t piss off mages. They’re pretty darn scary_.


	6. I’m a healer. It doesn’t mean I can’t be an asshole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is one of those chapters that ended up fairly long, mainly due to a nice writing flow than anything else!   
> We get some insight on how Guilds work in this universe, y'know, in case someone was curious.

** Capitol of Potentia, Kingslight **

** Guild Hall of the Reds and Blues **

Wash followed Tucker into the building only to see the giant front door coming to a close. Outside, he heard the happy chipper of Caboose along with a string of angry curses from an unknown source.

He turned to Tucker, who just shook his shoulders.

“Meh, let them fight. We can introduce you later.”

“So-“ Wash scoured his brain for a mention of the leader of the Guild. “You said your old Captain died. I take it that’s the new Captain then.”

“Huh?” Tucker gestured for Wash to take a seat by the table as he looked over some papers by a desk further away.

“The guy yelling at the huge guy.” _Eloquent, David_. Had he been back in his family estate down in Avalanche, his mother would’ve slapped his hand with a fork and given him a stern lecture about the many many lesson he’s endured about using proper language. Wash dragged a chair out and sat down, watching the stained glass casting a beautiful array of colors on his hands as he crossed them on the table.

Tucker looked up for a second, his eyebrows furrowed. A hint of something dark flashed through his eyes for a second. Then it clicked and he smacked his hand on the desk and snorted.

“Uh, Church? Nah, not our leader. _I_ was second in command before Cappie died.”

“ _You?”_ Wash repeated the sentence, hoping he heard wrong. He looked the man up and down as if he would be able to see any skills of leadership in the slight, lithe frame of the younger man.

“Ey, fuck you too, bud.” Tucker flicked his finger in his direction. “Church’s not my leader. We don’t really have one. He’s just the guy who stomps his foot and grouch until people do as he says.”

As if on cue, something crashed outside and another string of curses echoed.

“Great.” Said Wash. “Wonderful. Fan-ta-stic.”

“Welcome to my world, dude.“ Tucker grinned. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Was this Guild in as much…disarray when Flowers was in charge? A Freelancer would most likely be strict on the regiment and rules from the Guildmasters.”

“Yeah, you’d be surprised.” Tucker said quietly.

“Wait what-“

“What the fuck? Wash?” cried a voice to his right. Wash jumped back and turned.

A few steps away from the now open front door stood a man with a leather satchel slung across his shoulder. Dark, wavy hair in a long bob, hitting the top of his turtleneck, olive skin and eyes in an eerily familiar light green. Wash’s eyebrows furrowed, and a small ache hit the back of his head. Too many people were familiar to him, and he couldn’t figure out why.

The man nodded towards Tucker and walked forwards as he tucked a pure black strand of hair behind his ear.

Wash shook his head, and the eerie headache was gone.

“What was that?” Said the freelancer.

“Nothing, not a damn thing.” The man repeated and dumped the satchel on a desk leaning against a wall. Inside, Wash could hear crinkling noises, like the bag contained nothing but pieces if broken glass.

“So, this day can’t get any fucking worse. Half the crystals were already shit, Caboose broke the rest of them and _now_ we have homeless Freelancer in our Hall.” The man continued and brushed off his dark pants. He turned to stand in front of Wash, and it annoyed the man that they were about the same height.

Wash scrunched his nose and squared his shoulders. “What’s with the animosity? Do I know you?”

“Nope. But I know you. David Washington, Guild rank: fencer and former Freelancer.” The dark-haired man took a step back, and the strange cold that had settled in over the room eased up in the matter of seconds. “I’m Church.”

“Oh.” Wash started to reach his hand out for a greeting but retracted it, still uncertain under the scrutinized light green eyes following his every twitch.

“Are you sure we haven’t met?” He said, unable to shake the feeling that he’s seen him before. His eyebrows furrowed. “And how did you know who I was?”

“Positive.” Church said and leaned back, casting his eyes in Tucker’s direction. “And unlike some people I actually know what’s going on around here.”

“Hey!” Protested the man. “I _heard_ about him. The guy who-“

“Your expungement was pretty much all everyone talked about for a few days.” Church cut him off. “So, what are you doing here?”

“Uh…” Wash turned to Tucker. Somehow it sounded like the dark-haired man wouldn’t be thrilled to find out the reason why the former Freelancer was in their Guild Hall.

“We’re taking in another stray, apparently.” Tucker said nonchalantly.

Silence hit as Church seemed to process the sentence several times over.

“What?!” Church’s voice reached a strangely high note, almost a shriek. Whatever threatening aura he had before pretty much evaporated. “Why?”

“York came by the bar.”

“Of course, he did.” Church sighed.

“Yeah, and he said _‘hey I got this really sad guy who’s trying to kill himself through alcohol-poisoning-‘_ ”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself.” Wash sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Shut up.” Tucker pointed at him. He turned to Church. “-And I thought _meh_. But then York offered to pay off my bar debt-“

“Wait what?” Wash growled. “He paid you to take me? What am I, a pet?”

“Zip it, freelancer.” Said Church.

“C’mon Church, he’s a _Freelancer_. Aren’t those guys supposed to be good? We’re kinda one fencer short after Cappie.” Tucker shook his shoulders. “That’s good enough for me.”

Church clicked his tongue. _“I’m gonna kill him.”_

“Sorry?” Wash said. Church ignored him, sighed, and then turned to him.

“One, no fishing for information. You’re not a Freelancer anymore, and you don’t report to the crown. Two, you’re not in command. Like ever. Leave it to us. Three, no matter what Caboose says, don’t let him take top bunk. He’s broken the thing before and broke Grif’s back falling down. Deal?”

He reached out his hand.

“Wait, what was that about a broken back?”

“Deal?”

Wash looked down at the other man’s hand.

He kept thinking back of the many hours he’d trained with his Freelancer friends. The many nights he’d spent pouring over that theory that in the end caused his expungement. How proud he was when he was named a Freelancer. And how crushed he felt when his rank and gear was ripped from him.

This, Wash already decided, was going to be a really shitty time of his life.

“Deal.”

“Great.” Church’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “Now we have to head up to the Guildmasters to register a new member. I don’t have time for this.”

“Do we _have_ to, though?” Tucker said. “Can’t he just be-“

“Are you suggesting that I should stay an _illegal_ member of a Guild?” Wash bristled at that. “Absolutely not. I am a man of honor and conduct, and we will follow the rules of a proper Guild.”

Church leaned back on the balls of his feet, arms crossed with a stormy look across his face. “Three seconds in and you’re already breaking the ‘ _not in charge’_ -rule, eh?”

“I know for a fact-“ Wash stood tall, hand behind his back. “That the proud Guild once ruled by Agent Florida should follow the proper procedures. If anything, for the sake of the memory of Florida. Surely you can see that as well.”

“You clearly didn’t know Flowers all that well, then.” Church said. But he relaxed and uncrossed his arms with a sigh. “Come along. I’ve already spent a whole goddamn day in this heat waiting for a shipment, why not add a fucking walk to the Grand Board as well.”

The dark-haired man leaned out from the main doors, opening one of them slightly. “Caboose, why the hell are you still wearing your armor? Want to get cooked to death?”

“Hi Church.” Came the happy reply. Wash could only see the large gauntlet waving in the gap.

“Get out of your armor.” Church punctuated each word with a knock on the door. The large man seemed to understand and bolted indoors to remove his armor.

“See, I told you.” Tucker said, grinning at Caboose as the large man removed his helmet and put it gingerly on a table.

“No, you did not.” Caboose said simply. “You’re not remembering that right. _Stupid Tucker_.”

“Goddamnit.” Tucker sighed. He nudged Wash with his arm. “Let’s go, we’ll wait outside.”

“Need help removing your armor?” Wash ignored him and turned to the large man trying to slap the straps loose on his plackart. “I’m not a squire, but I do believe I can be of assistance.”

“I did not think you were a squirrel, Mr. Washingtub.” Caboose smiled. He then turned fully to him. “I can’t get the straps.”

Wash helped the large man out of his armor, slowly putting down every piece on the same table. It was actually quite nice work, the blue color worked in seamlessly with the steel.

“Impressive.” He said. “Where did you get your armor?”

“Church made it.”

“Church _got it_.” Tucker corrected, rolling his eyes. “Caboose thinks the sun shines out of that guy’s ass.”

“I see.” Wash said. He clapped the larger man on his arm. Sweat almost oozed out of the white linen shirt he wore beneath the gambeson, and Wash tried to be discreet as he rubbed it off his hand on the table. His lower half however seemed to be covered with regular hosen pants. “I see you’re wearing civilian clothing underneath, I suppose we can go like that. Pop a tunic on though, don’t want to offend the civilians.”

“Move it, people. I want to get this shit done before the Reds get back.” Church yelled from outside.

Tucker laughed. “Want to hide the broken crystal before Simmons get here and screams in terror?”

“Ugh.” Was the only response he got from the grumpy man outside.

With the scorching sun turning gentler in the afternoon, Wash didn’t find the trek to the Guildmasters _too_ painful. The upper city was built in a continuous ascension, the roads slightly slanted, giving the citizens a gorgeous view of the surrounding woods and lakes, but it could be somewhat of a drag to climb up.

The Guildmasters headquarters was situated just outside the outer bailey of the castle, which was naturally placed at the top of the hill. The building seemed almost carved out of giant stone walls surrounding the Meteor Fortress. Guards walked the walkways and battlements, and Wash could even see the hint of the trebuchets placed in front of the gate to the bailey, three monstrous, gargantuan war devices turning dusty and old as the capitol saw fewer and fewer tribulations and wars.

_The Grand Board_ , the home of the Guildmasters and those who issued quests to the city’s Guilds had quite the looming and foreboding presence, and Wash almost felt as if though the very house leaned over him to judge him on a trial. Two guards lined the open doors to the whitewashed two-story building as well, the royal colors on their surcoat in dark navy with silver linings. Their polearms were held somewhat steady but not too straight, one of the guards yawning and seemingly bored out of his mind.

Church stomped past them first, purposeful and exasperated, closely followed by Caboose. The guards out front stared for a second at the monster of a man, and stood straighter, their polearms pointing in a sharp line up. Wash took the rear as Tucker hopped in, narrowly avoiding the steady stream of Guild members walking in and out.

The inside of the building was of whitewashed stone as well, with dark wooden structures and a polished dark green floor. A large wooden chandelier hung from the high ceiling, offering light and drops of wax on unsuspecting Guild members.

A huge board took up the better part of the left wall, the height taking up two floors, the upper could only be reached by the walkways of the second floor. The lower side was covered in brass letters hanging from small hooks nailed into the board, spelling out different quests and missions available to the Guilds. The bounties and requirement of the size of the Guild for the particular quest was laid out in columns. Two women, perched on top of ladders, moved the letters around and placed plaquettes reading ‘ _taken’_ and _‘finished’_ on the occasional title of the quests. The majority of the mass of people were standing in front of the board, pointing and arguing with each other.

Wash felt somewhat lost in the great sea of people, but he could see Church heading straight towards the back of the large hall. There, around a dozen booths seemed inlaid with the wall, a representative of the Grand Board peeking out from behind brass bars.

An old man sitting in one of said booths looked up as they approached. A menacing grin covered his face and he closed the book slowly, gently moving it aside. A thick mass of grey hairs helmeted his head, and beady blue eyes looked up from beneath a heavy brow.

“Well if it isn’t _The Stray_ and his loyal band of misfits. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Stuff it, Smith, we got places to be.” Church responded in a second, insult at the ready. As Wash approached, he tilted his head in his direction. “We’re here to register.”

“Oh, _deary_ me.” Smith brought the book back, the menacing grin still present. He opened it and turned a few pages. “Have the Royal court threatened to cut your funding? Whatever reason would you have for suddenly choosing to _actually_ register the things you’re supposed to register?”

Church tapped a brass bar. “Don’t you have anything better to do-“

“If I may.” Wash said, cutting in in front of the mage. “I am here to register as a new member.”

“Ah.” Smith’s smile faltered. His gaze fell down on the book and he brought forth a pen, suddenly no longer interested in even looking at his customers. “Rank?”

“Fencer, Warrior’s caste.”

“Have you graduated from a school sanctioned by the Warrior’s caste?”

“Yes, it was ingrained in my teachings in Avalanche.”

Smith yawned, still not looking up. “You got any papers on that?”

Wash hesitated, grimacing inwardly. “I don’t have them here, no. You can find it in any tomes recording the Houses in Whitemount-“

“If you don’t have the papers for it-“

_I’m going to regret this_. “My name is David Washington, of House Washington. Our House is one of the great Houses, tasked with guarding the realm of Whitemount. I’m certain you’ll find proof of my education there.”

That made the older man look up, eyebrows furrowed. He looked Wash up and down as if scanning him for proof of noble birth. “I know you.” He said at last. “You’re the guy who-“

“As the entire Potentian populace knows, yes, I am _no longer_ a Freelancer. Now-“ Wash found himself leaning closer to the Smith as the older man leaned back in his seat. “Are you going to register me, or not?”

Smith’s mouth became a fine line. He didn’t respond, but turned a few pages and scribbled down a few words. The next sentences came out monotone, as if it was a practiced phrase;

“The Guild of the Reds and Blues have now registered the amount of _one_ member of the Warrior’s caste. The Guild, with the new membership level of three, may now be called upon to answer quests of the third level of urgency-“

“National quests, woohoo.” Tucker muttered from behind. “I _love_ running across half the country.”

“-and all levels below. This is a decreed by Albert Smith, representative of the Guildmasters.”

Smith moved to look behind Wash. “While we’re on this _lovely_ journey of documenting, your registered hunter has not signed for the sanction of the hunt of one King’s deer per month.”

“He’s out hunting now.” Church responded. “I’m sure he’ll be sprinting up here straight afterwards to sign for it. God help us, we wouldn’t want people to assume our hunter is _poaching_.”

Wash looked back and forth between the Guild members and Smith, terribly confused and not quite understanding whatever it was they were discussing. The word _poaching_ left a sour taste in his mouth, and he made a mental note to ensure that their hunter actually signed for the deer, whatever that entailed.

Smith closed his book and moved his chair a step back. “I believe we are done here.”

********

_I can’t believe these people are considered adults_.

Washington sipped on his ale quietly, not adding a sentence to the weird game the Guild had decided to play. It was late at night and he’d rather be asleep after what could possibly be the oddest day in his life; but his new associates had other plans.

Wash hadn’t been very ceremoniously introduced to his new team. Church had, essentially, pointed at the former Freelancer and said “rookie, meet XXX” whenever a new face emerged. Rinse and repeat for at least a few hours. A bickering couple, followed by a really grumpy looking dog, was the first part of the _Reds_ that Wash came across. He didn’t bother asking anyone why they were divided into colors. Simmons had introduced himself as rank: offense mage and Grif had muttered something about being a rogue hunter. It had been pretty obvious that he was a hunter, since a golden eagle had hung out on his shoulders when they came in the room. The eagle had seated itself on a perch in one corner while the large dog laid down next to it. Wash had opted to voice his opinion on the fact that animalistic hunters should probably be outside, but he decided to shut it. The bickering couple had quickly taken off into the kitchen to prepare today’s meal, an impressive-looking stag that they’d carried in with them. A _registered_ stag, Wash made sure of it.

Soon after that came Sarge, and he was the most militant man he’d ever met. He was almost tempted to introduce him to his own father and say “Weirdly military-obsessed father, meet weirdly military-obsessed knight.” And let them have a go at each other. They hadn’t gone off to a great start. Wash had noted that, despite the warm day, Sarge wore a leather contraption that covered his entire right arm. Sarge had muttered something about “damn stupid magic” and “probably the blues’ fault” and taken off to the back garden to practice.

_Strange people, indeed_. Wash finished reminiscing about his new comrades and leaned back in his chair, nibbling on a piece of meat. The group had decided to play a game, whether it was to introduce Wash into the group or just for the hell of it, he had no idea. 

It was Tucker’s idea, apparently, and _apparently_ it wasn’t very uncommon for the Guild to play games like this. Wash didn’t get it. He didn’t get most things these people were up to.

“Hold on, hold on.” Grif muttered for the fourth time in the span of ten seconds. He bit his lip, a drop of ale dropping down the corner of his mouth. His redhaired lover -unless they were just oddly close and Wash did not buy that- sighed and wiped it off with his sleeve.

“By the mountains, man, you’re taking forever!” Tucker groaned and slammed his hand into the table. “Simmons, you’re up!”

“What?” The sorcerer screeched. “I don’t even like these games.”

“Man up, soldier!” Sarge berated. “This is an important opportunity to gain an upper hand on the Blues. Take advantage of the enemy whilst they’re drunk, then when opportunity strikes you can waylay them with your knowledge-“

“Sir, we’re _all_ drunk.”

“-To victory, my Reds!”

Wash sighed and took a full swig of his drink. Maybe if he lost some of his senses he’d understand what the whole game was about.

“I got it, I got it!” Grif proclaimed. “I have _never_ ever _ever_ had sex in another Guild members private room.”

“Well, better take the whole damn flagon then.” Church grinned mischievously and reached for the flagon, chorused by loud noises of disgust from the people around him.

“Not around the child, Church.” Tucker said sarcastically and clapped Cabooses’ shoulder.

Caboose scrunched his nose and moved further away from him. The giant man had been given a fresh fruity juice made from elderflower, something that made Wash calm down a little. The giant man acted like a silly drunk _now_ , and he didn’t want to entertain the idea of what Caboose was if he actually got his hands on real alcohol.

“Never have I…” Tucker chewed on his lip for a few seconds.

“By the mountains, man, you take forever!” Grif mocked. Tucker shimmied down his chair and kicked the hunter in the shin.

“Never have I ever been in prison. Or holding, whatever works.”

_Too soon_ , Wash’s mood soured considerably as he thought of where he’d spend essentially this entire week. He shimmied further down his seat and took another piece of grilled stag.

Simmons grimaced, smacked Grif’s ribs and took a sip. The hunter downed the rest of his ale in one gulp without a second’s thought. Tucker took a sip with a grin and then he turned to Church.

“There is _no way in hell_ you haven’t spent time in jail considering how freaking angry you are all the time. You’ve pissed of every single noble in this city probably.”

“Fuck off, I’m great.” Said the…

Wash grunted for a second. He actually had no idea what rank the angry man was. He brought up his fingers to count the Guild one by one.

_Tucker, rogue. Rank: Thief. Caboose, warrior. Rank: Marauder. Grif, rogue, a hunter. Sarge, warrior with the rank of knight. Simmons, mage and an offence sorcerer who used fire spells_ …. And that’s where his knowledge ended.

“What are you?” He muttered across the table where Church sat.

Said man was halfway through tossing his ale at the rogue, who’d brought up his turquoise cloak for protection while yelling “Not the face, dude, not the face!”

“What?”

“What rank are you?”

Church didn’t say a word for a second, all Wash heard was Tucker snorting behind his cloak.

“Yeah, go ahead and tell him – oh fuck that’s cold!” Tucker shrieked as the ale poured down his head. He shook his head, spilling ale all over Sarge and Church and then muttered whilst scrambling down to what Wash assumed was the bathroom.

“Battle mage, originally.” Church said curtly.

Wash’s old Freelancer-senses tingled at that. Out of habit he almost got out of his chair to grab his arm and bring him in for questioning. Church just stared at him, as if knowing perfectly well what he wanted to do and challenged him to do so.

Wash didn’t move, but his fingers moved over to his belt where his sword was usually sheathed. The uncomfortable aura that engulfed Wash seemed completely lost to the rest of the Guild.

“Battle mages are trained in Scania.” Wash said.

He might’ve been expunged, but he had been a Freelancer for too long to not react like that. He had worked with the King for years, stood next to him as the royal had to receive continuous news of how many of their own people they’ve lost to Scania. Many soldiers were trained and housed in Avalanche, where his estate was. To hear familiar names of people being killed as easily as someone had recited bad poetry stuck with him.

“Yup.” Said Church.

“Scania is enemy-land.”

Church shook his shoulders. “It’s also the land that houses the school of Battle Sorcery. Where they only train the most elite of Guild mages.” He turned to Simmons for a second. “No offense.”

“Dude, offense taken.” Simmons scoffed. “ _Nochkit_ _School of the Arcane_ for life!”

Church rolled his eyes. He leaned back. “Relax, Freelancer. I’m not a battle mage officially. People are way too testy about that these days.”

Wash just raised his eyebrows in question.

“I’m a mage obviously, used to specialize in cryosorcery. But right now, I’m specializing in restoration. The healer.” Again, he rolled his eyes. “And these fuckers like to get hurt all the time, so I’m being worked to death.”

“You’re not the most… healer-ish.”

They all scoffed at that.

“No shit, dude.”

“So how come you decided to be a healer then?” Wash _was_ curious, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t trying to figure out where the mage had his loyalties.

They all turned to Simmons for that. Said mage had just looked up from his drink.

“I uh… I called dibs on the offensive position?”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“What in sam hell!” Sarge smacked his gloved hand on the table. He turned an accusatory glare at the former Freelancer. “Are you telling me you have no faith in the International Dibs-protocol?”

“Uh…”

“I smell blasphemy.” Sarge concluded. “I’ll be watching you, Freelancer.”

“I…” He turned to Tucker for help. The rogue stood leaning against a doorframe, wringing water from his cloak. He rolled his eyes and twirled his finger near his head, indicating that Sarge wasn’t perhaps the most mentally stable.

“Ok?” Wash decided it was an appropriate answer.

Sarge snorted and muttered something Wash was pretty damn sure was supposed to be ‘pansy’.

_That’s enough for one day._

“You know what.” Wash stood up slowly. “I think I’ll take my leave. Where can I sleep?”

Tucker nodded towards a door near the stained glass. “Take Caboose’s room for now. Guy’s got a bunk bed so take the _top bunk_. We’re gonna clear out captain’s old room.”

Wash nodded towards the table in a sort of formal ‘g’night’.

He stopped in his tracks as a pounding on the main door started to echo throughout the room. Caboose woke from his half-nap by standing up, knocking the table sideways with his knees.

“Guests?” He said happily. “Friends?”

“Damnit, Caboose. Sit down.” Church gestured and the large man sat down obediently.

They all turned to the door as it creaked opened, moonlight spilling in.

A man, wearing the official royal colors, stepped inside, hands clapped and his back so straight you could use him as a measuring stick.

“Red and Blue Guild?” He said, his voice booming.

Grif winced and shook his head at the loud noise, muttering a “Dude, really.” In the corner, Lopez the mutt stood up with a menacing growl. Sarge petted the dog proudly.

“Uh, yeah?” Tucker said after some time of silence.

“You have been called in for a quest.” Said the man. “Issued by the His majesty King Leonard I himself.”

Wash’s mouth opened in disbelief.

“Oh, shit.” Muttered Church as he took another swig of his drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends~~  
> I am off to a pirate LARP (yarr!) for the remaining week and will probably not be able to add a third chapter for this week! I am off singing sea shanties and drinking grog~


	7. Caboose meets a very talkative piece of marble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back from a LARP with a new chapter~~

** Capitol of Potentia, Kingslight  **

”You know we charge extra for quests this late, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“The rate? It goes up if the clients ask this late.”

“How dare you? If it wasn’t considerably clear already, it is the King who issued the quest, mage.”

“Uh, no shit? And he has a shit ton of money so that shouldn’t be an issue. Like at all.”

“The Guildmasters will not hear of this nonsense of _extra charge_ , and neither is His Majesty. You serve the realm, my good man, and you do well to remember that.”

“Oh fuck off, he’s a grown-up. He knows how businesses work.”

Wash was just about ready to charge up to where Church and the man argued so loudly, but two hands grabbed his shoulders and he was pulled back.

“Don’t bother.” Grif grinned. “Church is stingy, not stupid. He won’t bring that shit up to the Main man.”

“He is our _King_ , not the ‘ _Main man’_.” Wash growled between clenched teeth. “And I don’t want a Guild member talking badly about our royalties behind my back. He doesn’t represent my opinion.”

“Oh boy.” Simmons sighed and gripped his other shoulder a little bit tighter. “Get used to it. There’s not much love for the King in the common quarters.”

Wash opened his mouth to argue. Then just growled and shook them off.

“Aw, c’mon man. We wanted to ask you about how the hell you got expunged.” Grif pouted.

“Not listening.” Wash growled and took off so that he didn’t need to hear anymore.

They were following the man wearing the royal colors for a while now, walking amidst the late-night crowd towards the castle. As much as Wash loved the smell of the fresh air at night, his mind was swimming with far too much information. He’d tried to press it all in, going from waking up in a drunk cell to be given a quest from the King who just expunged him; and that was just in _one_ day. His head pounded with both a little bit of ale, with annoyance as he kept hearing Church arguing pricelist and the overall onslaught of fond memories from the castle.

As they continued their journey, walking across the last bridge and under the last raised portcullis before the inner Keep, Washington kept his eyes laser-focused on the ground.

He hated going back there, back into the King’s solar where the His Majesty would probably be seated as he gave them a quest. His old colleagues would be standing there, proud and tall and arrogant, probably laughing at him whenever he turned. His stomach churned at the thought of seeing South openly mocking him. He’d knew she’d never miss an opportunity to issue her hatred, the hateful bitc-

“’Sup, Wash.” Said a familiar voice.

Wash almost turned heels immediately, not caring who he’d run into as long as he could get away. He did actually try, but only got as far as a quarter turn.

“Nope. Nice try.” York grabbed his grey travel cloak and pulled at it. “Let’s keep the running away from your best friend to a minimum, eh?”

The Freelancer turned to the rest of the Guild. They’d come at a stop in the keep’s courtyard, white stone benches manning the white walls as tall juniper bushes swayed gently in the wind. A fountain rippled in the center of the yard. Behind pillars Wash could spot the guards doing their rounds, loud clanking boots echoing as they hit the black marbled walkways. His heart ached at the familiarity of the breathtaking beauty of the Meteor Fortress. But it was somewhat ruined by the Freelancer who held his cloak like it was a lifeline. 

“Hi guys.” York said casually as if he wasn’t wrestling with an escapee with one hand. “How’s it going?”

“Wait, you _all_ know each other?” Wash wondered, more to himself than anything else.

The Guild issued their greetings with varying levels of enthusiasm.

“Pirate man!” Caboose gleamed and went in for a hug.

“Yeah, why the hell not.” York was engulfed in dark blue tunic fabric for a second before he got loose. He smacked the marauder’s shoulder. “How you doing, big guy?”

“I am very well. We are going to a castle. How are you, Mr. Yorkshire terrier?”

“Ok, see, _pirate man_ I get. Because of the eye-patch. But the dog-thing?” York turned to Church. “I bet this is your girlfriend’s fault somehow.”

Church bristled. “Ex-girlfriend.”

“Right.” York said, rolling his eyes.

“York, please let me go.” Wash said quietly.

“Nope, you’re all coming with me. Dee’s waiting in the library.”

“I thought this was issued by the King?” Simmons pointed out.

“Freelancer York, we should get going.” Said the servant who had talked to them in the Guild.

“I just need a word with them, I can take them to the library. Go on ahead.”

The servant opened his mouth to protest, but shut his mouth and continued through a massive set of doors.

“So this isn’t from the King?” Simmons repeated.

York shrugged his shoulders. “Issued from his eldest leading in his place, while His Majesty is away. Urgent business. But the Guildmasters gave us all the information necessary for giving quests, and Dee… well, he’s Dee. It took him a minute before he was on top of the situation already, issuing orders.”

Wash’s brow furrowed, then he sighed. “Please stop referring to the Delta as _Dee_ , York. It’s unprofessional. The prince has a title, stick to it.”

York laughed and dropped Wash’s cloak. He gave the former Freelancer’s shoulder a friendly punch. “I’ve missed you too. Hey L-“

York turned around to tell someone something, but all Wash could hear was his own blood pounding in his head. For a split second, his head damn near burst with pain, his eyes seeing spots. He grunted, grabbing his head with one hand. _By the mountains, not again._

“Oh shit.” He felt a hand grab him. “Guys, go on ahead. I’ll see to this.”

“Wait, what the fuck just happened? Is he okay?” Wash could decipher Tucker’s voice out from the pounding in his head and the insistent mumbling of the rest of the Guild.

“Migraines, we think. Happens on occasion. Cold usually helps-“

“On it.” Came the frustrated sigh of Church.

Wash took deep breaths and let himself be guided down a marbled bench. It was ages ago he had one of his episodes, though the twinges would return on occasion. He wasn’t naïve enough to hope that he was free of them forever, even Dr. Grey said as much, but it had been so long-

“Breathe, Wash.” York said calmly.

“I am.”

A hand grasped the side of his head, a gentle cold spreading and numbing his skull. He winced at first, instinctually trying to get away, but the sensation felt quite nice and with every breath the pain subsided.

“I-I’m fine.” Wash said. The spots in his vision disappeared, and he looked up to see York kneeling on the ground in front of him. Church stood next to him, mouth a fine line as he retracted his hand from Wash’s skull. The former Freelancer turned to the rest of the Reds and Blues standing a few meters away, somewhat confused.

“I’m fine.” Wash repeated, his cheeks turning red. “It’s just headaches, I’ve been getting them for a few years now. Help me stand up.”

“Wash.” York said with a reprimanding tone.

“I’m fine.” Wash said, his words clipped. He stood up by himself, and found his footing fast. He shook off the sensation. It was always like that, hitting fast and then disappearing like nothing. “It’s just a nuisance, nothing more.”

He ransacked his brain for whatever conversation they had before his head started hurting. “You uh- you said something about the library.”

“Right. A Freelancer is waiting there, along with… along with _the Delta_.” York said slowly, the hint of a smile on his lips.

Wash rolled his eyes, but laughed. “Alright, let’s go.”

“Woah, Wash, wait.” York grabbed his arms, and Wash felt his temper flare up again.

“I’m not made of glass, York.” He sighed. “Let’s just go.”

“If he says he’s fine-“ Church shook his shoulders, tone cold. “He’s fine.”

“That’s your professional opinion there?” York retorted, locking eyes with the healer.

“Please stop fighting.” Said Caboose quietly, a few meters away.

He had grabbed Tucker’s teal cloak, whilst said person was still attached to it. He held it like a blanket, fidgeting with it. Tucker stood in front of him, face impassive as the occasional fidget of his cloak yanked at his shoulders. His arms were crossed, his chin tilted and his eyes glaring at the three of them, like a disgruntled older brother scolding his brother’s bullies.

A twinge of guilt tugged at Wash. “Sorry. We can go on.”

“Hold on, I need to talk to you, stay here. Church, can you and the group go on ahead? I’ll tell you where the library is.” York motioned for Wash and turned to the healer.

Church’s eyebrows furrowed. “Wait, what-“

He yelped when the Freelancer grabbed his arms and shoved him away from Wash. The two of them started discussing something further away, but a blur of teal caught Wash’s attention.

“So-“ Tucker said, clicking his tongue. “Were you gonna tell us about that? The headaches?”

Wash rubbed his head, looking away while biting his cheek. “I haven’t had an episode in a long time, so _no_. And as you can tell, they go away quickly.”

“Uh-huh.” Tucker didn’t sound convinced.

“What is it to you, anyway?”

“Uh, if you get _an episode_ in the middle of a fucking battle. Or, here’s an idea, we might want to help you? Church can heal you, sure, but what if he’s not around? I don’t know what to do with headaches.”

“I can manage them on my own.”

“Behold; _another_ piece of very useful information we would have needed-“

“Can none of you see the irony of berating someone for fighting and then immediately begin fighting?” Grif cut in sharply. “Just fucking stop it.”

Wash felt his mouth fall shut yet again. He felt like a child, and the fact that he was currently looking down at the ground like one didn’t help. Tucker sighed and walked back to the group, holding up his cloak for Caboose to grab. He immediately did, holding it close.

“Okay.” York said, walking back to Wash. “Hey guys, go with Church, he knows where to go. Please.”

Tucker and Caboose, who just dropped Tucker’s cloak, turned to Church, who nodded in the direction of the massive doors and started walking. Simmons turned to Sarge as the older man started walking, then grabbed Grif to keep up.

When the doors closed with a dull _boom,_ York turned to Wash.

“So…getting along with your new friends?”

Wash almost laughed at the absurdity of York’s question. “No, not particularly, if I’m being honest.”

York bit the inside of his cheek, pondering. “Your head-“

“By the mountains, man, I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry.”

Wash’s brow furrowed. “Not exactly your fault.”

“Right.” York sighed. He looked up at Wash. “So, you don’t like any of them? Simmons, Sarge, Tucker-“ 

“Definitely not the rogue.”

The Freelancer deflated. “It’s only been one day, Wash.”

“Yes, I know. And I am already not too fond of him. Imagine how it’s gonna be after a week.”

“Honestly.” York shook his shoulders. “I thought the two of you would hit it off. It’s the healer I was worried about. I’m surprised you didn’t try to punch Church. You’re both grumpy and suspicious, and I figured you’d dislike him the most. Y’know, opposites attract but similar….s like to punch each other in the face.”

“He’s a good second.”

“Well shit, I owe North some money.”

Wash glared at him. “Oh, are you betting on my misery now?!”

York shook raised his arms in defeat. “Relax, berserker-man. It’s just for fun. Plus I thought you’d like Tucker. Sarcastic, witty, doesn’t mind drinking-“

“Stop trying to sell me smaller versions of you.”

York shook his shoulders noncommittally. “Had to try.”

Wash opted not to say anything. He bit his lip and chewed for a second.

“He looks familiar though. I think. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve met him before.”

“Cell buddies maybe? He’s pretty good at racking up jail-points.”

“Maybe so.” He decided to let it go.

Suddenly, a chilly wind hit the two of them where they stood. York looked around and swept his exquisite dark wool cloak closer around him. Wash endured the cold, waiting for it to dull his senses completely. The sudden chill reminded him of something though, when he’d met Church and a sudden chill hit the room. He had been an ice mage before he was a healer, so it made sense that he was naturally colder, but it was still on the subject of familiar people.

“Light green eyes.” He turned to York, who seemed immensely puzzled. “That sound like someone you know?”

His friend looked to the side, chewing on his lip, deep in thought.

“Well, one particular man comes to mind.”

****

“Dude, this place is lit.” Tucker said to that one guy wearing royal colors as they walked through a corridor. He was looking around with awe, trying to count how much money he could get if he took one of the bejeweled frames on the walls.

“Don’t even think about it, thief.” Said a passing guard.

“What, was I being too obvious? Hey Grif, am I drooling?”

“Dude, ew, what even?” Grif scrunched his face together.

Tucker wiped his mouth just to be sure.

They turned a corner, and soon found themselves in front of the servant who fetched them earlier.

“You got far.” Church said, humor in his voice.

The servant scoffed. “I was told to bring you to the Delta and I aim to. Follow me.”

“I know where to go.”

“Follow me, boy.”

 _Uh-oh_ , Tucker thought as he saw Church’s eyes darken. _I am not in the mood for this_.

He stepped back a few steps and let Church and the servant argue.

“Think the Freelancer is okay?” Tucker turned to Caboose.

Caboose nodded. “Washingtub is fine. Washingtub is a very strong man- Oh, what is that?”

The large man turned around to look at the surroundings, his hands no longer fidgeting. Tucker let Caboose be and continued on.

Up front Church was still arguing with the servant, the Reds were busying themselves by arguing over whether Simmons would grill marshmallows on the top of his fingers with his magic, and Caboose had found a bust of some old royal dude and struck up a conversation with it.

“Seriously. How the hell did we manage to fetch a quest from a prince?” He muttered to no one in particular.

“Tucker, this is Count McMarble.” Caboose poked at the bust. He listened for a few seconds, pressing his hand to his ear. “He says you’re mean.”

“Meh, the inanimate object isn’t wrong.”

The servant poked Tucker on the shoulder.

“You are second in command, correct?” The servant turned to him.

Tucker opened his mouth to argue. Then he turned to Church, who just shook his shoulders and rolled his eyes irritably.

“I guess?” Tucker said. “I mean, on paper at least.”

“That will have to do.” Said the servant and rapped his knuckles against a piece of parchment. “Now, as the second in command-“

“Yeah, by the way.” Grif chimed in. “-Our official _first_ in command is a dead guy.”

“-As second in command,” he continued. “I need a full report on your members, what caste they are and what rank they are. We will not send out half a team that doesn’t qualify as an entire Guild. I believe some changes were made today, and I need to ensure our information is up to par.”

“Uh, I guess.”

The servant started scribbling down information.

“Do you have any of the Warrior’s caste?”

“Yup. One big guy smashing things with a two-handed hammer and a smaller guy with a sword and shield- Wait, Wash is a warrior too… Two guys with swords and shields.”

“Eloquent.” Muttered Church.

The servant glanced Tucker up and down, trying to figure out whether he genuinely believed he was going to write ‘big guy smashing things’ and ‘smaller guys with swords and shields’ into official royal records.

“Fine, but official terms are for losers; We have one marauder, the big guy over there who’s _seriously_ going to make that marble shit fall over. Then there’s a knight over there, grumpy old man. And then the other guy who uses a shield, sword and light armor, the fencer, is the one outside with York.”

That seemed proper enough for the servant.

“Rogues?”

“That’s me and that Islander over there. I’m a classical rogue, Grif’s a hunter. He uses a bow and traps. Because he’s a bitch.”

Grif shot him a finger from afar.

More scribbly noises. Somewhere in the background, Tucker could hear Caboose monologuing with the marble bust about muffins.

“Then there’s-“

“The weirdos who talk to energy? Simmons and Church. First guy is an offensive mage, uses fire. Second’s our grumpy-ass healer.”

“…I’ll write them down as mages.”

“Same thing really.”

The servant looked over his notes. “That _is_ enough distribution of caste for this quest. You may proceed. Follow me.”

“Boy am I glad you decided to check our Guild status _after_ you already dragged us over here.” Said Tucker and smacked the servant on the back. Said person yelped and sped up so that he could avoid him.

They passed door after door, and turned corners more times than Tucker could count. Everyone now and then they’d pass a window or an opened gate, and he couldn’t help looking inside.

“The library is up a floor.” Church cut in, almost ahead of the servant now. “Let’s pick up the pace.”

The rest of the journey was quiet. Up a spiral staircase, then back through corridors and halls. At last the servant stopped in front of another set of doors guarded by two men. When they approached, they silently opened the doors for them, letting them through.

The library was no different from the rest of the Meteor Fortress keep, in that it seemed far larger than what necessity demanded. It was as large as two stories, a gargantuan metal chandelier glistening in the dancing light of its candles. The door led them onto an alcove, if it was fair to call such a huge space an alcove. Tucker couldn’t see past the railings down to the lower floor, but if looked anything like the floor they were on; it was rows and rows and even more rows of books and reading spaces and tables.

A large table was set in front of them, enough space to fit ten men comfortably. On the far end of the table stood a man with an impressive moustache. His outfit spoke of a Freelancer, but his whole ensemble was eerily white, not a speck of dirt on it. _Wyoming_ , Tucker found his eyes narrowing.

“Reds and Blues, I have the honor of presenting you to His Highness the Delta.” The servant said loudly, hands clasped behind his back. “and the man guarding him, Sir Reginald II of House Wyoming of the realm of Blood Gulch.”

“No need to introduce me, chap.” Said Wyoming, waving it away. He turned to the chair on the far end, the one he was behind himself. “Your Highness, I will relieve you if York is around.”

“Do so.” Said a voice from the chair.

Tucker had to turn to the right slightly to catch a glimpse of the seated man.

His attire was fine, with rich colors and patterns in green velvet and golden thread. His hair was fair, slightly lighter than Caboose’s, and his skin of olive color, just like Church’s. But as he looked up, Tucker found himself unable to find any similarities with any other person he’d met.

His eyes were bright green, with the intensity that seemed more feline than human. His pupils seemed almost green as well, as if covered by a light verdant hue.

_Is he…blind somehow?_

The eyes turned to him, and he almost felt as if though they burned him and saw through him. Tucker shivered. _Creepy_.

“York isn’t with you.” The Delta said, eyes flickering as if looking for someone.

_Oh, so he can see._

“He’s talking to Wash.” Church said casually, clearly not as bothered by the creepy eyes the royal possessed. “They’re on their way.”

“I see.” The Delta said, tapping the side of the table as if impatiently waiting.

“My dear Church.” Wyoming said suddenly, arms out as if to greet the healer with a hug. His voice was sickly sweet. “It’s been too long. I do believe some more manners are in place though, consider to _whom_ you speak.”

Said healer leaned back in disgust. “Wyoming. Still alive I see.”

“What a polite chap you are, fearing for my health.” Wyoming said smugly. He let his arms drop and put them behind his back. He turned to the servant, eyes suddenly cold. “Run along.”

The servant bowed and left the room, but promptly walked into another man hurrying into the room.

“My apologies.” Said the servant.

“Nothing to worry about.” Replied York and clapped the man’s shoulder.

The servant left as York and Wash walked into the room. Wash bowed stiffly when he saw the Delta, but York only smiled warmly to him. The Freelancer guarding said royal, however, had few kinds words to say.

“There you are, York.” Wyoming said. “Back to your duties as you see fit, I see. Have no fear, I will make sure to notify the King of your absence. Wouldn’t want latency to seep into the ranks now, would we?”

“Heavens no.” York responded dryly. “Thank you for keeping the post warm, Wyoming.”

Wyoming swaggered past the group, casting a look of ill-disguised revulsion at the rogue. Tucker felt his temper rise, his teeth showing in a snarl. The older Freelancer smiled back to him, showing the same number of teeth. He leaned down, Tucker despised being shorter than most of the Potentian citizens, and hissed;

“Settle down, _little crow_.”

Tucker’s eyes doubled and his mouth fell shut. He scanned the room quickly, hoping no one had heard the Freelancer. He turned around as Wyoming walked past, keeping his eyes on him. But no one else reacted, so perhaps it was safe-

“It’s a pity-“ Wyoming said, casting dark eyes at him over his shoulder, “-you haven’t become more civilized. I had hoped you’d be better than your countrymen.”

The very air seemed to turn thick and heavy, and Tucker could feel the anger rise through his body as he started seeing red. His mouth opened once more in a snarl, ready to pounce at the back of the Freelancer.

_You absolute piece of shit-_

“Tucker.” Hands grabbed his arm and Tucker found his nose pressed against the arm of someone smelling of cold, fresh air. _Just like home_. The view of the white Freelancer disappeared as a shoulder obscured it. Tucker wanted to step past the person and go after Wyoming, but the rational part of his brain screamed at him to not do it. So, he exhaled deeply, his warm breath wafting back in his face as he leaned his head against Church.

“I’m fine.” He muttered and shrugged his friend away. He turned to seek the Freelancer once more, only to see him shoulder past a glaring Washington and then turn a corner.

“Dickhead.” Tucker whispered.

“Tell me about it.” Church responded.

Wash closed the door behind them, and the group turned their attention towards the table. York stood at the side of the Delta. At the nod of the royal, York brought forth a sealed scroll.

He handed it to Church, who took a glance at the seal.

“It _is_ the royal seal, if you were concerned.” The Delta said with little quip. His voice wasn’t kind nor cruel, only laconic and decisive. Tucker couldn’t really place the prince.

And he only just now realized none of them had bowed or done anything they were _supposed_ to do, according to every mention he’s had of royalty. _Oops_.

The Delta didn’t seem to particularly mind though. He only regarded the Guild neutrally, looking at them as if he was categorizing them and putting them to memory.

“I was counseled on whom to issue this quest to.” The royal said. “And I believe it holds personal interest to you, Washington.”

“Your Grace?” Wash said, confused.

“I’m sure the rest of you are familiar with Seers, right?” York turned to the rest of the Guild. “To quote the books ‘ _The Royal Seers are viewed with high regard, as they are able to witness things from the past, present and future. They assist the royal family with visions of impending events to better shape the future of our nation_.’”

“Grand Seer has gone missing.” Said the prince, effectively cutting the other man off. “We want you to find CT and bring her back to safety. It’s a dangerous world out there for someone with so much coveted abilities.”

“You want us to find Connie?” Wash’s voice cut through the suddenly quiet room. The former Freelancer turned to York. “Did you-“

“I told you not to go alone.” Replied the brown-haired man with a small smile. “And I know you’d do anything to find her regardless. This way, you’ll have official funding.”

Tucker let his eyes rest on the former Freelancer, and he could practically see the weight being lifted from his shoulders.

“Thank you.” Wash said with a quivering voice. “Really, thank you.”

“We suggest that you start with Ivory Tower, where the Seers are trained, you might find something there.” York said, nodding to the scroll in Church’s hand. “It’s about a day’s ride from here, south down Emporó road. I hope that scroll can give you some information, although I trust Wash knows the necessities. Report to the Grand Board once you’re done.”

“That is all.” Said the Delta. “You are dismissed.”

__________________________________

“Is that Tex?” York waved at the shadows as they entered the courtyard once more.

Washington hurled around, scanning the courtyard for said person. It was so silent the very wind seemed to echo, bouncing around the walls. Nothing but stone and shadow.

Wash was secretly thankful. While Tex wasn’t like South, he would prefer it if he didn’t have to meet some of his old colleagues just yet. The wounds had barely even begun to heal. Meeting Wyoming was painful enough, even if the old Freelancer had simply pretended that he didn’t exist.

His brow furrowed. He couldn’t see anyone the courtyard besides the two of them and the remaining Guild coming up behind them, just passing the door. He was about to turn back to ask York if he’d had too much to drink when a voice right next to him said;

“What do you want, York?”

“BY THE MOUNTAINS!” Wash jumped back a few meters, arms readying for attack. York just laughed at them.

Tex, as if she’d just been conjured out from the shadow like an evil, blonde, black-clad demon, just raised her eyebrows at him.

“Still alive.” She stated noncommittally, vastly ignoring the fact that she just scared him half to death.

“Yeah, I…yeah.” Wash’s mouth snapped shut. He was never really good at talking to Tex. She always had a wall built around her, along with that eerie feeling of superiority. He never knew what to say to her.

The blonde turned to York, who just smiled, not bothered at all by her unapproachable aura.

“So, this guy just joined the Reds and Blues.” York gestured to Wash.

That got her attention. Her hair almost whipped back to slap her in the face as she turned. Her variety of knives strapped to her person glinted and clinked.

Wash took one step back. “I just joined today.”

“Have you strangled someone to death yet?”

“He has two candidates for potential murder so far.”

“That’s it?” She turned to him. “Let me guess, Church and Tucker?”

York mimed hitting a bell with his finger. “Ding-ding-ding, correct, milady.”

“Does everyone know them? How come I’m the only one who doesn’t?”

York and Tex shared a look.

“What?” Wash’s brows furrowed yet again.

The door closed behind them, the Reds and Blues all flocking to the scroll in Church’s hand. The mage broke the seal and started to read it, and they walked forward in a tight group like a school of fish rushing forward.

Wash opened his mouth to say something, but found himself thoroughly ignored as the Guild –his new colleagues, for the love of the gods- just walked right past him and already on their way to exit the courtyard.

“Thank you.” Wash muttered while York just sighed wistfully and shook his head. In the corner of his eyes he could see Tex picking up small pebbles and examining them.

“What are you-“ Wash started.

“Hold.” Said Tex, and again Wash felt his mouth snap shut.

She examined a collection of pebbles, picking up the sharpest one.

“Good enough.” She muttered, aimed and tossed.

It hit the back of Church’s head with the speed of a projectile. Wash winced for a second.

“OW! What the hell?!” Church looked back, effectively stopping the Guild as they turned to look behind them. Simmons managed to steal the scroll while he wasn’t looking.

Church’s light green eyes finally found their culprit, as Tex was casually tossing more pebbles into the air and catching them.

“What was that for, you bitch?”

_He’s going to die. He just called Freelancer Texas a ‘bitch’. Our healer is going to die the same day I just joined._

She didn’t kill him. Instead she just scoffed and rolled her eyes at him, amused. Wash’s mouth fell open. He’d seen her kill people for less insulting things than that.

“You dropped something.” She said, thumbing at Wash who still stood there like a confused puppy, whipping his head back and forth between the Freelancer and the healer.

“The hell are you waiting for?” Church turned to him. “What are you, a pet? C’mon, we’re moving out.”

Anger flared in Wash’s stomach at the insult.

“Hey-“ He started.

“See you tomorrow, then?” Said Tex.

_What?_

“You’re going with us?” Church responded with a suspicious voice. “Why?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

_What?_

“You are?” York’s nose scrunched in confusion. “So that’s why you were packing after today’s rounds?”

“I have business down in Ivory Tower.” She said noncommittally, shrugging her shoulders. “Why not go with you losers?”

“Aaw, I bet Church’s all about that, huh?” Tucker wiggled his eyebrows at the healer, who hit the shorter man on the head like a bell whilst Tex tossed a pebble at him.

Wash stared at her for a few seconds, trying to put the pieces together. Does everyone know the Reds and Blues? Including the most high-ranking Freelancer? And is she actually _with_ \- He stared at Church, the grumpy healer, and then back to Tex, the very angry and scary Freelancer.

_‘Ex’ Church had said. He didn’t mean Tex, did he? He used to date her? How does a person date Tex? Is she capable of showing such emotion? Is he?_

“What?” She said, sharp brown eyes staring into his own grey ones. He’d forgotten he’d let his eyes rest on the blonde woman. “Did you want to see the King’s seal of approval on my request for leave papers or something, stick-up-his-butt?”

Wash opened his mouth again, but shut it after once again finding nothing to say to the Freelancer. It didn’t help that he decided to stand a little straighter, emphasizing her insult.

“So, what’s the quest?” Tex turned to Church. As Wash opened his mouth to say ‘ _classified_ ’, the healer’s mouth opened;

“It’s the one for CT. They _finally_ decided it was worthy of a search-party.”

“About time.” Said the blonde Freelancer, shaking her head. “It shouldn’t have taken them so long. Damn the old fool, at least Dee actually cares-“

“For the love of the King-“ Wash said exasperatedly. “Why does everyone call him that? York’s nicknames are spreading far too quickly.”

“Oh, he loves it.” York winked at him. “It’s a dull thing, being called _your grace, my prince_ and the such. I’m sure he appreciates normality.”

“Right, because you’d know.” Washington said sarcastically. He rolled his eyes and sighed. He let the subject go, knowing damn well that both the Freelancers would no doubt continue to disrespect the Royal House since they knew it bothered him so much.

He turned to the rest of the Guild.

“Let us go.” He said. “We’ll want to move at dawn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still not entirely pleased with the way this chapter ended, more because it didn't feel like a natural way to end it there. BUT this chapter would've continued on forever, so it had to stop somewhere xD


	8. Yellow doesn’t go well with purple, says Donut

** Capitol of Potentia, Kingslight **

** Guild Hall of the Reds and Blues **

Simmons woke up as a loud smatter of rain hit the windows. He muttered something inaudible, grabbed the covers and turned around; expecting to feel another warm presence. His nose scrunched up when it didn’t come in contact with Grif’s messy brown hair, always smelling like sea salt and sunshine. Simmons never knew _HOW_ something could smell like sunshine, but he knew Grif’s hair smelled like it. So, when it was nowhere to be found, Simmons opened an eye lazily and scanned their room.

Their things were packed in one corner, all thanks to Simmons of course, Grif would probably just pack tobacco and shoes for a week and be done with it, so the room was picked clean. No scrolls lying around, no arrows or quivers haphazardly on the floor. And no Grif.

Simmons yawned and sat up to shake the sleep out of his system. Dawn was a few minutes away, and Grif would never EVER wake up early unless something bothered him.

So, Simmons tossed his maroon undershirt on, managed to find his shoes and staggered out into the main hall to find him.

Caboose’s snores could be heard reverberating in his and Washington’s shared room as Simmons crept past it. A creaky wooden panel made its presence known and he hitched his breath and held still, but the rooms remained silent. Simmons scanned the main hall once more, and found the back door slightly ajar, the sound of heavy raindrops creeping through.

_Ah. I should’ve known._

The sorcerer stuck his head out through the door. The air was so heavy with rain that Simmons could only see shapes far away. The crystal hut, even with its stagnant magical glow shining through one of the windows, was nothing but a weird black shape off to his right. The archery range was but a collection of round circles, and the doghouse and falcon mew were barely even visible in the dark night.

And there he sat, in the middle of the courtyard. Wearing a shirt and his pants, soaked through the bone. His face up towards the sky as if enjoying the rain cascading down his tanned skin, his legs outstretched and toes wiggling as if to collect raindrops.

”Very discreet.” Said Simmons as he closed the door and hid under the roof jutting out, offering a small strip of rain-free air.

Grif jumped, halfway up as if to run or away. Then he saw Simmons, and just groaned.

”Dude.” He said, yawning. ”A little warning first, thanks.”

”Sorry.” Simmons said in a monotone voice, not even remotely sorry.

The hunter opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it and stood up straight. He sighed, a long happy sigh like a lazy cat, and yawned.

Grif shook his head and came to join him beneath the roof. He shook his head again, drips squirting all over the sorcerer, who sputtered and turned away. The hunter just laughed at his misery.

”Have you gotten enough water now, dickhead? Not gonna wilt on your way down to Ivory Tower?”

Grif’s nose scrunched up. ”I’m not a flower, asshat.”

”Close enough.” Simmons muttered. He gently removed Grif’s locks from his eyes, slightly transfixed as they changed colors in a variety of blue.

”I know that look.” Grif sighed and rolled his eyes.

”Shut up, it’s pretty.”

”Hmmf.” Was Grif’s only response. He moved away a mere centimeter, eyes darting away as if uncomfortable. Simmons knew he was uncomfortable about his certain… talents… but the side effects, his eyes shifting to the color of rain, lakes and the glittering ocean; was so damn beautiful.

”Knock it off.” Grif groaned and shoved him away. ”Phelee’s breath, you keep staring into my eyes weirdly like that we might as well just do it.”

Simmons flinched slightly, looking around like Sarge would pop up and recite laws of fraternization. Grif groaned and rolled his eyes.

“You know the only people who care about that are you and Sarge, right?”

“ _Right_ , and the only ones who’s… possibly breaking that fraternization law would be me and you, so of course I’m worried.” Simmons bit back, somewhat harsh. He nudged Grif’s hand, somehow warm despite being soaked in the cold rain. “We all know you never worry about anything, so I have to do it for the both of us-”

“Simmons.” Grif cut in as Simmons opened his mouth to continue his monologue. He flushed slightly, and cleared his throat.

“Right,” Simmons muttered. “I’ll stop.”

He saw Grif roll his eyes again, but his smile had a certain fondness that made his heart skip a beat. All his eccentricities and quirks, things that made Simmons feel strange and abnormal; handled with a small smile and a shrug. Gods know he should worry more, but Grif’s nonchalance seemed, at the very moment, much more a quality than a flaw.

Simmons leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. Then he immediately regretted it, and tried to discreetly rub the water off of his mouth.

Grif’s eyes blinked in confusion, now slightly orange as the sunrise started to hit through the heavy rain clouds.

”I’ll stop.” He repeated, and Grif stood on his toes to meet his lips with his own.

** Several miles south of Kingslight, Oakpalace woods, Emporó Road  **

”Are we there yet?”

Wash was about one minute away from crying out of both exhaustion and sheer anger.

“No, Caboose. We have a few more hours until Ivory Tower.” He said, for what felt like the 1000th time.

“I have to pee.” Said the marauder.

Wash let his head hit the back of the wagon loudly. Quite a nice wagon, actually, and Wash suspected it was from Florida’s old days, given how flowers and druidic symbols had been carved into some of the planks. Made from lighter wood with two makeshift benches on each of the raised sides; it made it possible for moving both gear and people relatively comfortably. The two draft horses pulling it seemed somewhat agitated and restless, though Wash chalked it up to the large marauder in full gear marching loudly and happily up front. Regardless, the wagon had aged well and the Reds and Blues seemed to host some affection to their old leader, given how well they had taken care of it.

It was midday, and they were just a few hours away from their destination. Clad in travelling gear, most of them were walking. Grif, who had been named the designated wagon-driver, was whistling a tune quite happily.

Emporó road down south was a fairly beautiful trip, lush trees with heaving canopies, birds perching on their branches. It was a clear sunny day, and yet Wash hoped for literally anything else other than the forests of Oakpalace woods. He’d take his cold, mountainous home of Avalanche over that at the moment.

Wash walked in the back of the party, taking the rear guard (ignoring Tucker’s and Grif’s innuendos about said position) so that he could watch their wagon more closely. They had only taken the outmost of necessities with them, even leaving their Guild animals back at the hall. Since Ivory Tower was a fairly busy city, they decided to take housing at the local inn should they need to stay the night. That, in turn, meant less gear to bring.

A bushel of apples was peeking out from beneath the cover tossed over the wagon, and Wash had to look everywhere else to not snatch one.

 _Almost there_ , he thought to himself. _Almost there._

“Is she hot?”

Wash looked up from stealing a glance at the luscious green apples. “Huh?”

Tucker, clad with brown leather gear with his ever-present awkwardly bright teal travel cloak, wiggled his eyebrows at him. “CT, is she hot? I heard she used to be a Freelancer before they discovered she had visions?”

Washington glared at the back of Tex’s blonde head, assuming the rogue got the information from her.

“We grew up together, back at Avalanche. She’s like a sister to me.”

That didn’t stop Tucker from wiggling his eyebrows again. “So? That’s not an answer, fencer. Is she hot? Hey, if she can have visions of the future, can she see how many times I’ll get laid? Like, my entire life-span amount of ‘getting laid’! ? I have this bet with Church-”

”I’m not even going to bother with you.” Wash quickly snagged Tucker’s travel cloak and pulled it over his head, the turquoise fabric covering his face completely. “Shoo.”

He sputtered and moved away.

Wash sighed and decided that, for his valiant patience, he deserved one of those apples.

As if on cue, an apple fell perfectly from the bushel, landing dangerously close to the edge of the wagon. Wash reached for it, saw a pale, delicate hand from under the cover snatch it from his hand, and he jumped.

_Someone’s hiding beneath the covers. Someone’s been with us this whole time._

“Hold!” He yelled, taking a few steps back and reaching for his sword. Only, he didn’t have his sword on him, and grasped weakly at his belt loops.

Had it been the Freelancers, they would’ve stopped immediately, armed and ready to handle the threat. But the Reds and Blues seemed to have the reflexes of a pack of drunk, disrespectful hens. He heard a distinct ‘ _what in sam hells’_ from Sarge far off in front of the wagon, but that was the extent of their defensive reaction.

They turned to look at him as if he’d grown a second head. Even Tex, an _actual Freelancer_ , seemed to have taken the command far too lightly.

“The hell you doing, fencer?” Said Church.

 _Of all the nicknames to stick,_ Wash thought bitterly. He straightened.

“There’s someone under there. Under the covers.”

“Uh-huh.”

The former Freelancer sputtered. “I mean it! What is with you people and not listening to me?”

“Because you are awfully paranoid.” Yelled Grif from the wagon’s front. Nevertheless, he slowed the wagon down to a stop.

Wash scanned the rest of the party for a sign of someone being armed. Most of them had placed their heavy weapons and helmets underneath the cover in the wagon, Wash included.

“You, sorcerer!” He pointed at Simmons. “Here.”

“I have a name.” said Simmons.

“Most people do. I need you here.”

“Yeah, Simmons. Be prepared to set fire to a bushel of apples and a pack of spare breeches.” Tucker snickered.

The sorcerer sighed tiredly, it was definitely not the first time he’d had a fire-joke or two tossed in his direction, and raised his hands. He turned to Wash, as if to say ‘ _go on, I’m ready’._

Wash nodded and turned to the back of the wagon.

“Whoever’s there, come on out. You’re surrounded, our pyromancer is ready to burn you to a crisp.”

“Have we found a new friend?” He heard Caboose whisper to Church. The healer growled in response.

The covers made no motion to respond, and Wash decided to take a step closer.

A waft of exquisite oils and lavender hit his nose. It was subtle, but noticeable enough for him to put together that whoever was hiding underneath the covers cared quite profusely about his hygiene. Odd for a freeloader or a bandit to use soap and essential oils-

 _Wait_.

He turned to Tex with a glare. Suddenly the reason why the Freelancer decided to go with them seemed much clearer. The blonde Freelancer answered his with a cool gaze, the only sign of emotion an almost animalistic side smile, showing off her right canine. He knew he had guessed it right. He knew who the person underneath the cover was.

 _Mother of the Sky.._.

He signed for Simmons to lower his hands. The sorcerer raised an auburn eyebrow, thoroughly confused.

“Just… at ease. It’s fine. Let me handle this.” He took a deep breath, and said as loud as he could, with as much conviction as he could muster:

“Yellow goes well with purple.”

Silence hit the road. Grif snorted as he and Simmons shared a look.

“The fuc-“

A loud, visible shudder erupted from underneath the cover.

“That’s just cruel.” Said a light voice from beneath the covers.

 _Now_ the Reds and Blues reacted by jumping back a few steps, most of them also reaching for weapons which they did not have on their person. Tex bit her cheek to not smile, and rolled her eyes.

“You can’t-“ A figure appeared under the cover, struggling to remove the heavy material blanketing him.

Wash waited patiently with his arms crossed.

A blonde head peaked out, his hair halfway down his neck with gentle curves draping beautifully around a heart shaped face. His green eyes, almost pixie-like, were glaring at Wash as if he’d just said the most unfathomable of evil.

“You can’t just use my biggest weakness against me, Wash. That’s awfully cruel! It is obviously the _most_ horrid of color combinations.”

“Hail, Seer Franklin.” Said Wash in a monotone greeting, doing his best to look like a disappointed parent scolding a child. “You’re a far way from home.”

“Muffin Man!” Caboose screeched like an excited bird, bringing forth his massive frame to engulf the smaller newcomer. Or to eat him alive in one gulp, one could never be sure.

“Hi Mikael!” The Seer cheered before getting smothered in heavy layers of clothing. A small petite hand clapping the side of Caboose’s ribs was the only sign that the small man was still alive somewhere in the embrace.

“You know, at this point-“ Wash turned to Tucker with an accusatory finger. “I’m not even going to bother asking how it seems like you know everyone.”

“We get around.” Tucker inspected his nails casually.

Wash cleared his throat.

“Seer Franklin!” He called, and the massive marauder turned around with the Seer in his arms, laughing as he gently tried to pry Caboose off of him. “May I ask what you’re doing here? Is it not law for the Royal Seers to be close to the King at all times?”

“Meh, I took a leave of absence.” Said the Seer casually, tossing a few blonde locks away from his face. Washington’s look soured at that. “Relax, Wash. The King is fine with it. As long as I bring a fine escort, of course.”

He gestured at Tex.

“ _That’s_ why you decided to go with us? To look after Donut?” Church said angrily, though Wash couldn’t help but detect a certain undertone of disappointment.

She looked at the healer with a bored look, not even dignifying his outcry with an answer.

“Why are you here?” Wash asked as the Seer, who casually dusted his pants. “Wait, Donut?”

The smaller man readjusted his light red vest and white undershirt, making sure he looked as presentable as possible. As the rest of the part were at least seven hours into their trek, it wasn’t difficult to outclass them at the moment.

“It’s just a nickname. I like sweets!” He said, his white smile almost blinding. “That’s what these guys call me-“

“Donut, what in sam hell?” Sarge had finally decided to walk back to where the rest of them were held up. His bright red armor would look comical on another person, but for some reason the older man managed to make it look weirdly intimidating. “You are late for duty, soldier!”

“Sorry, sir.” The Seer managed a perfect salute. “Not _officially_ a Red, remember? Clashes with the Seer-duties.”

Sarge grumbled but seemed to content on letting it go. He muttered something about ‘good salutes’ and started towards the front of the wagon again, his armor clinking.

“Why are you here, Seer?” Wash repeated. He’d forgotten to bow, as is custom whenever someone meets one of the Royal Seers, but he blamed his sudden commoner behavior on his new comrades. Plus, Franklin was one of those Royal Seers -one out the twenty in the castle, of perhaps 200 Seers total in the country- who never seemed to care about proper greetings.

Said Seer’s eyes turned sour for a moment, a sadness clinging to them.

“I heard about Connie.” He said quietly. Wash’s heart ached again, and he didn’t even bother trying to calm his expression.

“Connie was… special.” Said Franklin. “Angry, determined, and somewhat paranoid.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “-But she was just. And one of the Royal Seers who lived with me in the castle. If she’s gone… taken, kidnapped or whatever… I want to make sure she’s safe.”

Silence hit. Wash was the first to break it.

“Absolutely not.”

Franklin’s pixie-eyes turned big in shock. “What?”

“You’re far too valuable, and sacred to the King. We’re sending you back.”

“I’m not a letter, Wash.” He huffed. “I’m going with you to Ivory Tower. I’m a Seer, just as they are. Whatever issue you might encounter-“

“No. A Seer is never to be left alone.“

“I have an entire Kingslight Guild!” Franklin gestured to the rest of the party, whom all decided it was best -or more interesting- to not intervene. Grif even managed to snag an apple, nibbling on it as if the scene in front of him was nothing but a play.

Wash scoffed at the Reds and Blues, more committed to watching them than offering their opinions on what they should be doing. “You need _competent_ watchers!”

“What was that?” Church growled.

“ _Now_ you want to join the discussion?” Wash retorted, turning back to the Seer as the mage opened his mouth to respond. “It is required, by law decreed by the King himself, that a Royal Seer is always to be accompanied-“

“-By two Freelancers or more.” Tex finished for him.

He turned to her to continue, but again, there was a small superior tilt of her chin that made his mouth shut instinctively.

“ _Two_ of us. We’re going.”

“I’m not-“ Wash’s heart clenched and it felt like all air was knocked out from his lungs as he almost said ‘ _I’m not a Freelancer anymore’_.

“See, Wash?” Franklin grasped Wash’s shoulder. “I’ll be fine. I have all of you.”

Wash said nothing, but as the warm hand left his shoulders, and he was forced to look up to the scene in front of him, he found that they were leaving him behind again. The wagon was mere meters in front of him, but it felt like miles. They had fallen back into their normal patterns and pairings. Simmons nicked the apple from Grif when the other man climbed up the seat, Church and Tex fell into an animated discussion and the Royal Seer had a happy tale to ensnare Caboose with.

He felt utterly alone. And he realized how much he missed the Freelancers. York and North, even the odd quips of Wyoming and South were to prefer. _They_ were his people, friends and colleagues. This band of misfits? Not so much.

“You know-“ The rogue materialized to Wash’s right side. Wash jumped.

Tucker’s light grey eyes were almost a haunting contrast to his dark skin. He was close enough for Wash to note the three small, black dots underneath his left eye once more. For a brief second, Wash thought ‘ _I’ve seen those before’_.

“I figured you like to think of yourself as ridiculously skilled while we’re all incompetent. For some stupid ass reason.” Tucker tightened the fast on his teal cloak. “-But _you_ came to _us_. You need us a lot more than we need you.”

Wash’s sense of loneliness was quickly exchanged for a bubbling anger.

“ _York_ set me up with you. I want nothing to do with you.”

“No shit. And you’re quickly making sure we want nothing to do with you.”

“Then I guess we’re mutually disappointed.” Wash growled from beneath clenched teeth.

“Chill, berserker-man. I’m just saying you’ve got no reason to be this fucking aggressive.”

“I have plenty reason.”

“Then play that shit _down_. Or they’ll grow tired of you and toss you out. That would suck for your resume, eh? Unless you’re trying to break a record.”

“Enough-“

“It’s a scary world out there if you’re alone, fencer.” Tucker clapped his hand none too gently on Wash’s back. “It sucks less if you have friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People who know AO3 way more than me, as a first-time writer; should the Grimmons here be changed to "established relationship"? They are definitely still figuring things out, and there is definitely more development to be made, but they are past the first kiss etc.  
> Thoughts?


	9. CT can't draw for shit

** The City of Ivory Tower, south of Kingslight **

“We know why you are here.” Said the Headmaster, his eyes switching between an eerily milky white and a dullish blue. “We’ve seen it via the eye of the gods.”

Wash turned to Franklin, who just shook his shoulders.

“He’s very serious about his job.” Whispered the Seer to the former Freelancer.

“Ah.” Said Wash, biting back a sarcastic retort.

The Ivory Tower, the city, was not so discreetly named after the giant white tower jutting out from the small and rural buildings beneath it. The tower looked eerily similar to the rook of a chess board, tall and stout. It was outfitted with beautiful pictures and depictions of the Seers all-seeing powers, viewing the past, present and future. It was all carved into the white stone itself, Ivory gargoyles watching silently over those who came to see the those who could wield the power of foresight.

Inside was a giant circular room with cushions and pillows scattered randomly as some Seers were seated on them, meditating. Some others were aiding guests with visions, the Seer’s eyes covered with a milky white hue as if blinded.

The smell of candles, heavy waft of smokes and scented oils burnt on braziers made Wash’s mind heavy. He snorted, tried to clear his head, and focused on the man sitting in front of him on a small blue pillow. He was a tiny man, wiry even, his flesh taut over his bones. His hair was nothing more but half a hand of soft white fluff crowning his temples. His clothing was simple, off-white robes twisted around him in several layers, making him look like a mummified man wrapped in blankets.

“Beg your pardon?” Said Wash.

“You seek Connie, David Washington.” Said the Headmaster. “A dear childhood friend, and the appointed Royal Grand Seer. Burdened with the duty of aiding the King with safekeeping visions from those who wish to hurt him.”

The sentence irked Wash in more ways than one. He despised someone using his first name, he despised how The Headmaster knew his relationship with Connie and the arrogant way he spoke of the King. 

“She is not here. The Grand Seer will be much more difficult to find.”

“Well, if this wild chase gets us more gold from the crown, I don’t mind.” Church said in the background, looking around as if he was trying to memorize the columns and windows.

The Headmaster’s head turned so sharp Wash was certain he heard a crack.

The air seemed thin and cold suddenly, despite the heavy, thick warmth of the smoke circling the room. Wash fought a shiver as the Headmaster’s eyes turned white again.

“I know you.” He said, his voice wispy and thin. “The land seems to wade through trenches and snow, slow and dull. All but a select few. The name is washed away but the legacy is still there. Keep your wi-“

“If you’re doing what I think you’re doing-” The healer’s voice was cold. This time, due to his cryosorcery, Wash could feel the air drop several degrees. A few flakes of firewood crystallized and fell to the ground as soft flakes. “ _Stop. Now_.”

“If I have offended you-“ The Headmaster’s eyes turned back into the dullish blue.

“Whatever.” Church rolled his eyes and walked to the back of the party, like a child hiding in the back of the group to sulk. Wash followed the healer’s back with his eyes, a small headache forming. He let the suspicious conversation go, rubbing his temples.

“Oh, can you do people’s fortunes? Do me, do me, do me, dude! I wanna see how many times I’ll get lai-!” Tucker seemed ecstatic.

“By the mountains, you heathen.” Wash grabbed the back of Tucker’s cloak, pulling him back. “Stop that nonsense.”

“ _You_ stop that nonsense-“ Tucker imitated Wash’s posh tone. “I’m not gonna have this chance again. I have a bet to win! Hey, Head-whatever, can you do me next? My future?”

“Your past is much more intriguing.” Mused the Headmaster. “You all have quite the stories to tell.”

Tucker stopped fidgeting for a second. “You know what, never mind! I don’t need someone digging into my past. Already happened, dude, no need to worry about it.”

“No matter.” Said the Headmaster, dusting Church’s accidental snowflakes off his robes. “Just a harmless observation. Let me fetch you the journal.”

“The j- wait what? Back up-“ Church spoke up from behind the group. He walked up to the front, yet again. “What journal?”

The Headmaster turned to Franklin with a small smile. Franklin replied with a confused grin.

“Yes, sir?”

“Be a dear and collect Connie’s journal, it’s in the trunk in her old room. And bring David with you, I believe he’d like some time alone with it.”

“Who the hell is David?” Grif whispered to Simmons. The rest of the Guild pointed at Wash, who sighed and rubbed his face with his hand.

His other hand was quickly grabbed by Franklin grasping it with both of his own. “Let’s go!”

“Wait-what are we supposed to do?” Simmons cried out.

“Oh, just sit down and enjoy the scenery.” Franklin responded happily.

Wash let himself be tugged away, further into the back of the large circular room. A heavy, ugly oak door marred the otherwise pristine glistening white walls. Franklin grabbed the circular door handle and tried to pry it open, but gave up a few seconds and let the iron handle fall and hit the oak with a dull thud.

“Help-“

“I’m on it, Franklin.” Wash responded and steeled himself to open the heavy door.

The room the door lead to was fairly simple, standing out from the lavish public circular room they were just in. A winding staircase led up towards the upper floor, the way up dotted by candles lit in the small, slit windows.

Franklin grabbed a candle and motioned for Wash to follow him.

“Where are we going?” Wash asked as they ascended the stairs.

“Connie’s old room. Most of us, when we’re new recruits, are forced to stay in the dormitories _but_ given how she was a Freelancer before all this-“ He waved his arm dramatically, almost hitting the side of the wall. “Taa-dah, she gets her own room. I was _so jealous_ when I got here, rooming with so many other Seers was… odd. I’m from a small hamlet near Grasscreak, I don’t think there were more than 20 people living there, children included. So to get from _there_ to _this_ place with over a hundred recruits alone-“

Wash couldn’t help but smile at the constant stream of words from the young Seer’s mouth. He offered a few noises of agreement and encouragement but Franklin didn’t need much to continue monologuing. Eventually they reached the correct floor, where Wash helped Franklin with the door once more. The young Seer hopped along a circular corridor, eventually reaching a simple wooden door. He opened it and beckoned for Wash to follow once more.

“So, what is this talk about a journal?” Wash had to duck to avoid smacking the door frame.

“Getting to it.” Franklin sing-songed, rummaging through a trunk.

The room itself was nothing lavish, a tinted window and simple wooden furniture crammed into a space that could barely fit five people abreast. Nothing in the room spoke of Connie, any sign of mementos or personal belongings seemingly gone. Not that Connie spent much of her time in the Ivory Tower anymore. Wash supposed, but there was a small piece of him that wished to see… something. Anything that reminded him of his childhood friend.

“There.” Franklin exclaimed, emerging from the trunk with a tattered, navy book in his hand.

“Did she say anything when she left it?” Wash asked before he could stop himself. “Wait no, sorry. I forgot that you came down with us, you wouldn’t know.”

Franklin giggled. “It’s alright. I’m sure one of the guys downstairs have the sense of asking the Headmaster that.”

“Somehow I doubt it.” Wash muttered, examining the journal. He let a finger rest on the back of it and follow along the tattered side. Whatever it was, it had seen some share of adventure. “I never knew she had a journal. She never used it when we were trained to be Freelancers.”

“Maybe it’s a Seer thing then.” Franklin offered and shrugged his shoulders. “We get a lot more down time than what you guys probably do. Maybe she just got bored.”

Wash opened the book and had to bite the inside of his cheek as he saw the first page.

When they were children, they would often travel up the mountains, a day’s ride from the Avalanche castle, just to get a nice view of the many peaks and tops. Connie would often go off exploring while Wash found himself with a pen and paper in hand, drawing the environment around them. The drawings would most likely end up in a saddlebag and forgotten, or they’d be occasionally brought back to Wash’s quarters to be put up on the walls. But every now and then, Connie would nick a drawing that she particularly liked and keep it for herself.

Wash found himself looking at one of those drawings, finely sewn into the first page. It was horrendously crude, compared to Wash’s current work, and depicted only the shadow of the two palfreys they traveled on, tied to a young birch. They had been on enough trips together that Wash couldn’t even remember when he had drawn that, but clearly Connie held it close to her heart.

To not know where she was, if she was safe, or hurt or dead, pained Wash to the point where he almost felt a stabbing sensation in his heart.

_I’ll find you, Connie. I’ll make sure of it_.

“Wash?”

Wash looked away from the drawing and into the soft eyes of the Seer.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine.” Wash said curtly. “I just… I’m fine.”

“Did it say anything?”

Wash looked down at the journal again, turning the pages and scanning them for signs of where she was going. Every now and then a drawing of his own would pop up, sewn into the pages with varying degrees of skill.

_Odd things to journal_ , Wash thought as he continued to skim through the pages. Her own work was mostly several depictions of geometrical shapes, triangles and pentagons drawn over what looked like a crude drawing of a map. Wash stopped for a second at the maps, but couldn’t properly decipher what realm they depicted.

_Drawing was never your strong suit, Connie._

“What’s that?” Franklin tapped a delicate finger on a part of a page, seemingly dedicated to Connie trying to draw out a shape over and over again. Crosses covered most of them, as if she had started them and then didn’t like them, but one shape stood out clean and well-drawn. It was what looked like a triangular prism with words scribbled along the lines of it. Wash tilted the book to try and read the lines, but it looked more like scribbles than anything else.

“Luna Riv- hold it still, Wash, I can’t read it-“ Franklin grabbed the book and tilted it so he could read a few words written down next to the prism. “ _Luna Rivus_. It’s a… signaling prism, right?”

“Used as emergency beacons, yes.” Wash agreed, although that was the end of his knowledge. Franklin’s questioning eyes made him comment further, “I don’t know how they’re used unfortunately. That’s all I’ve been taught.”

“Ah.” Franklin’s nose scrunched up. “Why would she write about those?”

Wash sighed. “I have no idea.”

“Want to head back?”

“Yes. I don’t think I’ll be able to figure out much from this I’m afraid. Better give this to the Guildmasters. They issued the quest; they should know the next step.” Wash closed the journal and held it under his arm, holding the door open for the Seer.

The journey back down consisted of silence, with Wash’s head swimming with theories. The smell of the circular room, the wafts of essential oils and incense burned his nose once more. He coughed and hid his face in his sleeve for a second before continuing.

The Reds and Blues stood, once more, like a confused pack of disrespectful hens. Some stood talking with the Headmaster, some wandered the room aimlessly and some, namely Grif, had found an interesting collection of herbs next to an incense burner. The glitter in his eyes and the way he looked around argued that Wash would have to search him at one point for stolen plants.

“Found anything about her whereabouts?” Wash asked politely as he returned to the side of the Headmaster.

Church and Tucker, the only two still standing by the Headmaster, turned to him. Church didn’t respond at all, but Tucker shrugged his shoulders.

“She was here around a fortnight ago, said she wanted to get some old mementos she believed were here. Then she told the Headmaster to give the journal, _whatever the hell is in it,_ to you and _only_ you if you were to pass through.”

“A fortnight ago, huh.” Wash pondered. It was around the same time he had been expunged from the ranks of the Freelancers. “Was she with anyone? A Seer is usually followed by Freelancers. We’re tasked with-“

“We asked that.” Church cut him off. “A figure in a dark cloak opened the door and issued her in, that’s it. No one could see the face, the build or the sex.”

“But she had an accomplice.” Tucker chimed in.

“Or a kidnapper.” Franklin argued.

“A person of interest.” Wash concluded. “Is this something you can see? With your visions I mean? Do they work like that, can you _choose_ -“

“Not Connie’s.” Franklin grimaced. “We can sometimes _guide_ our visions in a particular place or time, but a good Seer can also block another Seer from visions. I don’t know how she does it.” He sighed wistfully. “That would be awesome, I wouldn’t have ended up in so much trouble stealing donuts from the pantry if another Seer hadn’t caught me doing it in a vision. That’s where my nickname is from by the way.”

“I figured, Franklin, thank you.” Wash said curtly, but gently clapped the Seer on the shoulder to ease his harsh tone.

“Yo fencer, did you find anything?” Grif exclaimed as he and Simmons returned to the group. Wash couldn’t help but scan the hunter’s pockets to see if they seemed heavier with herbs.

“Her journal.” Wash said, holding it with one hand and tapping it with his fingers. “We’re giving it to the Guildmasters back at Kingslight.”

“Oh, are we now?” Church said darkly, his arms crossed across his chest.

“Yes, we are.” Wash said just as sharp, issuing a glare in the healer’s direction. “This is a quest of national interest, we are to follow the instructions given to us by the Delta.”

“Man, can you imagine the pay after this?” Grif whistled. “The _food_ we could get our hands on.”

_Spare me these fools, Mother of the Sky, and I promise I’ll get better at praying_.

Wash gritted his teeth in silence, determined not to let it show. He bowed quickly to the Headmaster.

“Your help is greatly appreciated, sir. We will be on our way!”

He could almost hear Church curling his lip and snarl. He almost wanted to turn to snarl back at him.

“There is something else you should know, o noble guild.” Said the Headmaster.

“What now?”

He and Franklin shared a look. The latter looked somewhat uncomfortable.

“Should we really-?” He whispered.

“The Royal Grand Seer had a rather… singular task on mind as she came to leave the journal. She knew about your expungement-“ Again, Wash fought the urge to show his teeth and sneer like a shadow cat. “-And was rather set on helping you get back to the ranks.”

“Aaaaw, look at that.” Tucker teased. “Seems like Church and Ms. Bitchpants McCrabby aren’t the only lovebirds around.”

“Shut it or else-“ Wash wheeled on him. “She was my _friend_!”

“Sure. Friends often go out of their way to get each other out of _expungement_. Also, am I the only one who thinks that’s a weird ass word to use? How about _fired from your job?!_ “

“Maybe you’re not used to having actual _friends_ , rogue, but in my previous party we _help_ each other out-“

“If I might-“ The Headmaster cleared his throat. “The Royal Grand Seer mentioned the reason for your expungement - _please stop growling at me_ \- and came around to us to try and find a way to prove to the King that you were correct.” He paused, his fingers drumming against his leg. “She’s trying to break the Potentian Curse.”

As the room grew quiet, Wash felt himself deflate.

“Oh.” Was all he could muster, a fog settling in his skull.

** Ivory Tower, the Inn ‘Rook’s rest’ **

_She’s trying to break the Potentian curse._

Wash bit off a piece of dark bread, chewing slowly and repeating the same sentence over and over again.

_She’s trying to break the Potentian curse_.

He sighed, rubbing his temple with one hand before he let it drop to the roughly hewn table of the bar. The journal was in his hand, his grip so hard on it his knuckles had turned white. A tankard of water was placed in front of him, and although he had drunk his fair share his mouth still felt dry and thick.

After they left Ivory tower, they met up with Tex and Sarge near the inn. Tex had claimed that she had business down in the city, and Sarge was set on the mission of finding them some place to sleep in the crowded town. It wasn’t a particularly large inn, but hospitable enough, with stables for their horses and place for their wagon.

The Reds and Blues had given up for the night, tucking in one after one in one of the upstairs rooms. The night laid its dark blanket over the city of Ivory Tower not too long ago, and even though Wash’s bones ached and his eyes wished for rest every time he blinked; his mind wouldn’t let him find relief.

He took another piece of bread and one last swing of water before he stood up with a dip of his head to the innkeeper. He could find his room easy enough as he was, once more, forced to share a room with the giant marauder. Caboose’s snores could be heard from the hallway, and when Wash opened the door his ears were assaulted with the rumblings of the blue Guild member.

The room itself was small, cozy even, with two beds lining opposite walls. Heavy curtains framed the small painted window, the fabric seemingly swinging in the heavy snores released from the left corner. The hulking mass of Caboose moved around almost constantly, the bed underneath creaking dangerously.

“I guess I won’t be able to sleep regardless.” Wash said to himself, unable to not smile at the sleeping marauder.

Wash moved to his bed and lit the rushlight placed at the side table. He let his head rest on the wall, sinking low on the bed. His hand moved over the navy journal, and he opened it once more to look over its contents. Fingers caressed the crude picture on the first page, even smudging the coal in the corner a little bit.

Wash bit his lip and looked at the dark spot on his finger, before letting his eyes fall on the picture again.

He hadn’t even tried to draw the sky or the clouds in the picture. He lacked a good technique back then, to be fair, and it took him a few years before he realized that smudging the coal slightly would produce the best result.

Unable to resist, he put his finger on the picture and dragged a dark line across the page, smudging out the harshness. A few minutes in, and the vague likeness of a clouded sky had been added to the original.

_Connie hated it when I did that. Always sighing and telling me to stop trying to improve on old sketches_.

His finger thumbed on the corner, putting pressure on the smooth surface again and again. The third time, a part seemed almost sunken in, as if someone had drawn a harsh line with the wrong side of a pen, producing no color but a small dent on the smooth surface.

Wash casually let his finger press against the dent, following the small line. It almost felt like a letter, like a _W._ Perhaps it was young Wash’s idea of a faraway image of a bird drawn into the picture, and then erased.

He looked at the page, noting the indented line free of the dark smudges drawn across the otherwise smooth page.

Then he noticed another shape beneath the first letter. An _A_ , and this time Wash couldn’t blame the shape on his younger self.

His heart started to beat a bit faster and he dragged his finger across the page in search of another line. Before long he could find a word written out, hidden in plain sight. And not just a word, a name.

_Wash_.

He never used to go by Wash when he was younger, so he mentally crossed out the option of him signing his name on the drawing when it was first made. This was recent.

_A message?_ He sat up straighter now and grabbed the candle to get a closer look. He scoured the page for more lines, but it seemed empty. He turned the pages, looking for more of his old work sewn into the pages. _What is this? Did she write this? Why would she write this? Did she plan this, did she run away or was she taken?_

Wash barely noticed when drips of wax fell on his hand, or that his breathing had turned harsh and forced.

_Wash. Perfect Rising. Ask Doc. First trigger. Find me. Don’t tell._

Wash read the statements over and over again. He was hoping that, after what was probably the seventeenth time, he’d find a magical connection somehow. A moment clarity, an obvious _‘aha, NOW I see’_ , but nothing emerged. He berated himself, clutching his head as if it would help his brain figure it out. Nothing.

_Ask Doc_.

Wash’s brow furrowed. He had never heard of _Perfect Rising_ , if it was an event, a book or the name of a goddamn ship. _Would Doc know this?_ Memory of a strawberry blonde, jumpy herbalist flashed before his eyes. _She doesn’t mean that Doc, right? Does it have something to do with the curse? And if this is the first trigger, where is the second? Is there even a second? Is she there now?_

He stood up suddenly and barged out of the room, in need of fresh air. Caboose only moved slightly and continued to snore.

The air outside was crisp, with a light rain drizzling down Wash’s shaven head. He let his hand follow the scalp, pondering.

_Find me,_ she said. _Don’t tell,_ she said. 

“You’re not making it easy, Connie…” Wash muttered to himself. “But I’ll find you. I’ll make sure of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am about 5-7 chapters away from actually being done with Volume I of this fairly massive story. It will be somewhere around 45 chapters long... but the chapter lengths are usually somewhere around 2-4000 words long, so hopefully it won't feel like it's TOO much.  
> Back to writing chapter 37 oh dear lord :D


	10. Church doesn't know how to duck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not gonna infodump, I’m not gonna infodump, I’m not gonna infodump- oops.

** Emporó road, a few miles south of Kingslight **

Wash couldn’t blame the nausea on the alcohol in his blood anymore, as much as he would like. But as it had been two days since he’d woken up in the cell and dragged across the capitol by York; it just wasn’t plausible anymore. He still felt nauseous though, but it had everything to do with his overall animosity towards his new ‘friends’, the stiff feeling in his back after sleeping poorly in the Ivory tower inn and most importantly-

_Perfect Rising. Ask Doc. First trigger. Find me. Don’t tell._

_Don’t tell._

He hadn’t told his new comrades about Connie’s message, not daring to trust those he had only known for two days. Not to mention they weren’t particularly trustworthy, seeming more like a drunk rabble of bandits than anything else. Hell, he didn’t even dare tell Tex.

He had to go on this mission on his own then, he supposed. He had to find Doc, try to wring something from him, whatever it was that needed to be wringed out, and the continue on.

 _Should I tell the Grand Board? Or the Delta? Surely, they bared no ill will towards the Connie and want her back safely?_ Wash massaged his temples as his head begun to ring like a bell. He’d have to try to fit those pieces together another day, when his head wouldn’t hurt just by the thought.

Again, he walked in the back, guarding Franklin who sat in the wagon trying to chat with Grif in the front. The Seer didn’t need much of a conversation partner to continue blabbering, and Wash could see the hunter’s shoulder tense in annoyance as Franklin kept talking. Tex sat next to the driver, to everyone’s surprise, though she only cleaned her knives and held little to no conversation with anyone. Caboose and Sarge lead the way, walking in front of the wagon, while Simmons walked next to Grif once more. Both Church and Tucker had found space on the back of the wagon with Franklin (“Shotgun!” they had yelled earlier in the morning, then grumpily head to the back when Tex took the seat next to Grif with a feral smile.), pleased they could skip the burden of walking.

Wash let his fingers trace the journal he kept on the inside of his thin leather jerkin. All of the Reds and Blues had argued to read it out loud, but he’d refuse.

 _It’s for the Delta to see, and no one else._ _I have a classified mission, with sensitive information. I am not to read it near people I can’t trust._

He kept repeating those words like a mantra, but disgustingly curious to reread it once more himself, trying to find clues. What were those shapes, what were those weird stones she had tried to draw and whatever significance did they have? Was it related to the curse or her whereabouts?!

 _Is she trying to break the curse because of me?_ Head Seer _did_ mention that Connie was set on finding a way to make the King absolve his expungement, to prove that Wash was correct. If that wasn’t enough incentive for him to try to find her and help her-

Wash’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t feel like he deserved her help. He set himself into the mess he was now in, and he didn’t want his only childhood friend risk her life and livelihood just to correct his mistakes.

Wash let his fingers fall away from the journal, all of a sudden not feeling worthy to even touch the book.

“So, fencer.” Grif turned around, most likely to stop Franklin from talking too much. “Why is CT trying to help you? What did you do?”

Wash took a deep breath as his insides churned. “It’s-“

“Don’t say that it’s _nothing_.” Said Church, casually observing his fingernails.

“It _is_ nothing.”

“Sure.” The healer rolled his eyes.

A tense silence hit the Guild for a few seconds. While Church had decided that his fingernails were _quantifiably_ more interesting than anything else, the rest of the team seemed intent on hearing the answer to Grif’s question.

 _I hate this_.

“I…” He started, his voice failing him. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I presented a theory about… a matter dear to His Majesty’s heart. He didn’t take it well, and decided that it was no longer appropriate that I was to guard him and his family.”

“Not _appropriate_ , what the fuck?” Tucker said. “Did you touch the little prince or what?”

Caboose gasped up front and turned to look at Wash in horror. “A pacifier.”

“Shut the fuck up, Caboose.” Church groaned.

“N-no.” Wash said, torn between educating the marauder on what a _pedophile_ was and the _very notion_ that Tucker suggested that he would ever be inappropriate towards the Epsilon.

“So?” Simmons said, also walking slower to be able to listen.

“I just…” Wash rubbed his face with his hand. “We’ve been fighting with Scania for years, correct?”

“…Yes?” Grif said after a while, his tone indicating he had no idea what Wash was talking about.

“More specifically, after Queen Omaris’s death, since we believe that Scania was behind it. I thought differently.” Wash blurted it out quickly. “I researched the matter. Thought of another suspect behind the kill. And the King…”

He trailed off, the memory still haunting him.

“The King didn’t like it. At all. Said I was _insulting the memory of the Queen_.”

“Wait, back up.” Church’s brow furrowed. ”How?”

”I suggested it was an inside-job.”

“By the… Queen herself?” Simmons asked.

 _By certain former members of the former royal family who were insane,_ Wash thought.

“No.” he said. ”No, of course not. It’s not important.”

”How the hell is that not important?” Tucker questioned.

“Leave it be.” Wash sighed. “Just leave it be.”

“You know what, I’m on a roll.” Grif said, ignoring him completely. “So what the fuck is this curse?”

He could hear groans from other parts of the road, including a very distinct “By the gods, don’t you know _anything,_ you idiot _?”_ from Simmons.

Grif just shook his shoulders and let a long drag of smoke release from his pipe. He smacked his lips and turned to Wash. “So what is it?”

Wash opened his mouth to respond, but Simmons beat him to it.

“It’s the curse that started five years ago? You know, the one that turned all the braziers on the Kingslight walls _blue_ and set off that magic explosion?”

“Damn dirty, blue magic.” Sarge muttered from the front, flexing the fingers on his left hand.

“Dude, I didn’t even live here five years ago, I have no clue.” Grif snorted and rolled his eyes.

Simmons just sighed and pinched his nose bridge.

“So, what’d it do? The curse?” Grif had to turn back to the road so that he wouldn’t steer the wagon off course.

Church responded while chewing on the cuticles on his thumb;

“It’s a memory curse. It wiped the memory of a few royals off the map so that no one from Potentia could remember who they were.”

“The fuck? What kinda weird curse is that?”

“It gets even more specific.” Wash added. “It’s about Kings Leonard’s firstborn, Leonard II, as well as his betrothed; Princess Allison II of Demec du Marque and her sister Crown princess Beth. We, the people of Potentia, still remember that we had an heir named Leonard II and that he was to wed a princess from our ally nation and so on, but the curse represses and removes everyone’s memories of them. We no longer have any clue what they look like, what they did before the curse. If they were kind, cruel or mad. All portraits disappeared, any visual representation of them gone from the world. They’re just…names now. Whispers of the Alpha, of the lost sisters of Demec du Marque.”

Tex snorted from the front of the wagon, and Wash could almost hear her rolling her eyes.

Wash sighed. The quest to break the curse and bring back the royalties who were lost had almost consumed their King. All magic had disappeared from Potentia for some time, probably as a side effect of the curse, but it didn’t stop the King from contacting the best mages in the nation to try and break it. A years later, the magic returned to the land but the curse still in full effect. The King had probably lost all hope of finding his son and his daughter-in-law. It had hurt Wash many times to see King Leonard I pour over books and scrolls as mages and renowned curse-experts had told him that it was hopeless. The curse was built by masters beyond their skills. And only Scania, the land down south, had such powerful mages in their midst. 

“They could be living as peasants in some backwater village, or maybe they’ve been kidnapped.” Wash continued. “Maybe they’re dead. Or maybe they’ve lost their own memories of who they were. We don’t know.”

“So the King thought it was cool to blame Scania, the nation down south on the other side of the Quaking Sea, for the whole thing.” Said Church. “Says they are the ones who started the curse _purely_ based on the fact that they’re good with magic. He ordered them to remove it so that the memory of the crown prince and his betrothed return. So that they can lead the country as they were born to do or some shit.”

“Weren’t you trained in Scania, Church?” Franklin clasped his hands together and pointed to the mage sharing the wagon with him. “They train specialist mages, right?”

“Battle mages, yeah. Best of the best. No other mage school comes even close to Scania’s.”

“Fuck off.” Shouted a slightly offended Simmons.

“So, are you from Scania, then?” Wash asked the mage, his tone authoritative and clear.

 _Add another reason to why I don’t trust these Reds and Blues_.

Church just snorted. “Do I look like a Scanian to you? Blonde, blue eyes and all that shit? I’m probably the most Potentian possible.”

Wash scanned him up and down. Black hair, slight olive tone skin and green eyes.

_Ok, fine. You look very Potentian._

“Are you done glaring at me, fencer?” Church growled. “You think I’m in alliance with our enemy nation or something? I was trained there _before_ the war.”

“I said nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Church scoffed and went back to observing his fingernails, utterly done with the conversation. 

The former Freelancer sighed. Conversation with the mage seemed impossible, the angry healer always ready to bite back and snarl like the very _notion_ of Wash trying to temporarily take the reins of leadership was something to battle over. He was reminded of his eldest sister Sarah, always stomping her feet and growling whenever another sibling said a word against her.

 _“I’m the eldest, I get to decide!”_ she had cried once, promptly followed by actual tears. Wash’s response had always been to bite his cheek and apologize, under the scrutinizing eyes of their parents. Not that he actually was sincere with his apology, but it seemed the simpler option.

“I’m sorry.” Wash said, looking in the mage’s direction.

The Guild turned to him, almost in perfect unison to add a comedic effect to it all, as if they had never apologized to each other over their differences.

“What?” said the healer.

“I don’t mean to doubt you.” _Out loud._ “I’m certain you face enough scrutiny as it is, your trade hailing from Scania and all.”

Church still looked at him, eyebrow raised.

“Sure.” He said dismissively, but lacking the aggressive heat that usually came with every word.

 _Good enough_. Wash suspected the road to kinship with the Guild would be much longer than preferred. _Small steps,_ he reminded himself, _small steps_. With luck, he could ditch the Guild when they returned to Kingslight. He would restock, question Doc and then be on his way to find Connie. All he needed to do was survive the trip back home to Kingslight, and if a small act of honor and conduct from himself was enough to ease tension for a few hours, then by the Mother of the Sky he would try it.

The back of the wagon approached suddenly, as if slowing down. Wash stopped and looked around for a reason, only to find Church with his hand up, signaling the others to slow down. Grif had pulled the reins slightly, the horses barely moving forward.

Silence hit the Guild as Church closed his eyes, mouthing something. He opened his eyes again, and for a second, they were striking blue; iris, pupils, whites and all. Then they were back to normal, and he turned to his left, staring into the woods.

“What-?” Franklin asked quietly.

Church raised his hand again and Franklin’s mouth clamped shut, his eyes wide and scared.

Wash placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, looking around for signs of whatever it was Church had seen. Or more realistically, _felt_.

He saw the healer and the rogue look at each other, and with the hint of a nod from Church to the left of the wagon Tucker turned and jumped down from the wagon smooth and quietly like a cat, knives at the ready. Church still looked around, but crouched down and procured a black, smooth staff from their belongings.

Grif pulled the horses to a full stop and grabbed his bow. He jumped to the back of the wagon, vaulted over Franklin and pulled the covers over the Seer.

“Down.” He whispered to Franklin, and then grabbed Wash’s shield and tossed it to him. Wash barely caught it, caught off guard by the smooth and professional way the Reds and Blues had started to move suddenly.

Caboose and Sarge pulled their closed helmets on, the metal clanking as they pulled down their visors. In full armor, the large marauder seemed more beast than human, and the knight dressed entirely in red suddenly seemed more menacing than comical.

Tex appeared next to Wash, tossing a knife back and forth with a sigh like the threat was just a _terrible_ inconvenience for her. Normally, Wash would anger at that, and berate the person about being prepared and taking threats seriously. But Tex? No, he dared not tell her to do anything.

Lastly, Simmons pulled up his sleeves, a flame dancing across his fingers. Every now and then his eyes would flash orange. Wash had no idea what the glowing eyes meant, but he readied his sword and shield and stood ready.

The whistling noise of an arrow reached his ears just as he heard Church yell something.

A piercing gust of wind almost knocked Wash over, and in his peripheral he saw the head of an arrow heading his way before it was redirected by the arcane puff of air.

“Left!” Church and Simmons yelled at the same time, and the Guild followed their instructions and turned.

 _Bandits?! Who dares attack a Guild in broad daylight?!_ Wash’s mind screamed at him as he readied his shield once more, his near death pumping more adrenaline into his body.

A band of men and women emerged from the woods seemingly out of nowhere, hidden in the thick shrubbery. It was an odd mix of around fifteen people, a few holding swords, axes and shields and others armed with bows and staffs. Three large men, marauders by the looks of it, held huge maces in their hands, closed helmets hiding their features. Orange and black surcoats clothed the group, a mark on the breast. It was an odd combination of symbols; one Wash had never seen before. He couldn’t place the symbol as the banner of any known mercenary gang he’d come across, but the group was clearly organized enough to color coordinate.

A chill crept up Wash’s spine.

 _Are they looking to rob us? Or is this something else? Does this have anything to do with Connie?_ He berated his own mind for forcing him to make that assumption. _I can’t think of that right now, focus!_

The two groups looked at each other, waiting for the other to strike once more. Wash held his tongue at first, waiting for Church to take the lead and ask for a reason, but the mage was quiet.

“What is the meaning of this? What do you want?” the former Freelancer asked after a while, and received no response.

A few of the members of the other group turned slightly to a person in the middle. A woman, armed with a bow, watched them carefully with the hint of a slightly manic smile, like a predator grinning at its prey. _The leader?_

 _Fifteen to eight_ , Wash thought. _For Freelancers, not so bad, but for a Guild with questionable skills? Not that great._

As he opened his mouth to ask again, he heard Tex fish another knife from her pocket.

“Fuck this.” She said, and flung the throwing knife into the forehead of the woman in the middle.

The manic smile still painted her lips, the attack so fast her face seemed frozen as the knife embedded itself in the front of her skull.

“Goddamnit Tex!” Church yelled, right as chaos broke lose.

The opposing marauders roared and charged, the bowmen retreating to fire arrows from a distance and the swordsmen came forward with their swords raised.

 _Wonderful_.

Wash sighed and met the blade of a sword with his shield. He grit his teeth and grunted as the weapon hit his shield. He moved his stance and pounced, bashing the wielder. He hit something hard and it cracked, his enemy dropping his sword as he howled.

Wash jumped back with ease, eyes swiftly sweeping the battlefield for any oncoming attacks before his eyes landed on the sword wielder. He held his chin with one hand and fumbled for his weapon with the other.

“No, you don’t.” The fencer cried and lunged; shield raised high. His sword pierced his throat and it protruded through the neck, blood gushing down in a bizarre rain of red. The man clawed at the blade and tried to scream as blood filled his mouth. Wash locked eyes with the man, then pulled the sword out with a swift motion, his back to the fallen foe. He heard him topple behind him.

Around him he saw the Reds and Blues battling in a uniquely chaotic symbiosis, switching between their attackers to confuse them, never missing a beat and never harming each other. It was almost like a weird deadly dance; it was so _perfectly_ in synch.

Caboose swung his sledgehammer above his head to gain momentum, and as his attacker dove for his exposed midriff, Grif’s arrow found its way right past her to throw her off. One millisecond of confusion was all it took for Caboose’s hammer to hit its target. A sickening crunch echoed through the mountains and another foe joined the fallen.

Wash turned and caught a glimpse of Church vaulting his way out of the range of a mace as Tex took the opportunity to stab the foe through the armpit. She was gone in the next second, leaving the bandit to clutch at the base of his arm and slowly bleed to death. Church swung his staff and a yellow-ish light engulfed his lover. She gazed at him for a second, appreciating the mage’s effort as the healer mended her wounds. Something flashed in her eyes for a second, and the mage seemed to interpret it immediately, swinging his staff and turning to hit another bandit in the side, foiling the bandit’s attempt of a surprise attack.

Wash charged while the air was knocked out from her lungs by the staff’s blunt edge. He bashed her with his shield and slashed across her thin leather armor.

 _Another one down_. He looked up to ensure the healer’s safety, catching sight of the mage effortlessly ducking Simmons’s fireballs that shot near him. They locked eyes for a second, his own grey hardened eyes in contrast to the mage’s light green, shining with energy. _For someone specializing in mending people together, he sure liked the stench of combat on the battlefield._

A flick of the mage’s wrist in Wash’s direction, and the dark-haired man was gone again, sifting past enemies and allies at an inhuman speed.

A tingling sensation spread across Wash, and he reveled as his body’s aches and injuries disappeared as the warm wave spread.

 _Why oh why did the Freelancers not have a healer?_ He thought to himself as he charged with newfound strength.

He ended up back to back with Sarge, the man slicing through the bandits like they were crops in need of cutting. The Knight was an impressive sight in his full armor, his face hidden by the visor and his red cape flowing in the wind. They both slashed at their enemies, occasionally blocking an incoming attack but were otherwise on the offensive.

In the corner of his eye he saw a swordsman trying to sneak up on Tucker as he sliced the exposed back of the knees of a bandit, but the swordsman’s foot was suddenly engulfed in the iron teeth of a bear trap Grif had placed only seconds before. The bandit howled, and Tucker turned around as he cut through the sinew off of the back of the knees of a bandit, palming a throwing knife and piercing the trapped swordsman’s heart. All in one swift movement. The thief danced out of the way of the range of battle for a second, mouthing a ‘ _nice try, bitch’_ to the trapped enemy as he sifted past him and pulled the throwing knife back into his belt.

Again the warmth in Wash’s chest spread, and a small smile dared to show on his face. _Madmen. The whole lot of them_.

A grunt broke his train of thought and he felt Sarge stagger. He shielded his face and turned.

“Are you injured?”

Sarge only grunted back, pushed a bandit away and grabbed his shield with both hands to bash him with the pointy edges. Washington quickly turned back.

“No, you’re fine.” He singsonged as another sickening crunch echoed through the mountains.

***

Caboose was locked in battle with another marauder, his war hammer blocking the hits from the two-handed sword. Their weapons clashed and held there, trapped in a contest for dominance, both of them trying to break free from the grip. He gritted his teeth, sweat pouring off of him in waves. Why did helmets exist and why could they not be… less… sticky? And why did Church insist that he had to wear one?

He blinked the sweat drops away from his eyes and poured some extra strength into his arms. He switched stance, buckled his knees and charged forwards. The stalemate broke and he took the opportunity to slam his hammer on the marauder’s foot, crushing it in the process.

A waft of fear went through him at the sight of the blood welling up from the wound.

 _It’s fine,_ he told himself _, Church is here. Nothing bad can happen if he’s here. He promised me._

Still, the sight of the blood brought back an influx of bad memories he rather left repressed. He shook his head, trying to get his bearings. Something wafted past his arm, the faint smell of scorched armor hit his nose, but at that moment he barely even registered it. Nor did he register Simmons’s yelp and his apology for nearly striking him with a fireball. He gripped his hammer tighter, bit his lip and swung the hammer again, closing his eyes and hoping that the smell of blood wouldn’t reach him. 

***

“Damnit.” Church hissed as a blade came just a tad bit too close for his taste. He swung around the swordsman, ducked a swing and vaulted over another, bringing his staff down upon his head. The swordsman grunted in pain and staggered, but the mage had no intention of letting him recover. He ran the staff down the enemy’s back, forcing him down, then held his chin up with his weapon and kneed him in the throat, kicking his shin as he fell down. Energy waned around the swordsman as he drifted off into unconsciousness.

“Why won’t you just die?” Church growled in annoyance. If his fellow Guild members hadn’t gotten used to him healing them all the time, he could be using offensive magic instead of relying on punches and kicks if an enemy got too close.

A twinge of chaos to his right, the air’s energy whispering warnings to him and he grabbed his weapon with two hands and spun it in front of him. An arrow swiveled past, its course redirected by the air currents created by the staff. The mage huffed, catching sight of an archer trying to hide outside the line of battle, clinging to the wall of the forest surrounding them.

The archer yelped when his arrow was deflected, then he quickly nocked another one. As he looked up to try to aim, he was greeted by the sight of a blunt head of a black steel staff a mere blink away from his face. It struck him and he fell backwards, his eyes rolling back when his head came in contact with an edged rock protruding from the ground.

Church grinned when he felt the energy sip away from the archer, blood seeping from his skull.

“Still got it.” He rolled his shoulder and ran to pick up his weapon.

He turned around to analyze the battlefield. Tex was off fighting three bandits at once, but nothing about her body language indicated that she was in any need of help. It was confirmed when she slit the throat of two of them at once. Grif and Tucker has found themselves in a temporary alliance as one distracted their adversaries while the other sneaked in arrows and blades. Sarge and Washington were back to back, finishing off the circle of swordsmen surrounding them. The number of adversaries were steadily sinking, now only about seven or eight.

_Where is Simmons?_

The other mage’s yelp was heard quicker than he was seen and a misdirected fireball scorched the side of Caboose’s arm as it whipped past. The mage shrieked an apology, but Caboose didn’t notice. He was too busy staring at the foot of the marauder he was fighting.

To the untrained eye, he looked injured, his body frozen and his head inclined towards the ground. But Church knew this man (as much as he really didn’t want to); and he wasn’t hurt. He was distracted. The mage growled again and ran towards them when he saw the blood from the marauder’s crushed foot. Blood was not Caboose’s favorite thing in the world.

“Damnit, Caboose!” His voice boomed through the battle. “Snap out of it!”

The marauder didn’t seem to have noticed him screaming, but he shook his head anyway, as he tends to do whenever he wakes up from a bad dream. Church saw him grip his hammer tighter and he could’ve sworn he heard the big blue idiot take a deep breath and close his eyes. Then he moved back to swing his hammer again.

But that’s all that Church could see, as something else blocked his view.

The mage barely had time to skitter to a stop as an enemy’s enormous mace slid into view. All he managed to collect was the utter panic of the arcane energy pressing around him, practically screaming at him to get out of the way. The enemy’s arm came into view, the edge of the weapon a mere second away from crushing his chest.

 _I’m not gonna make it in time, I won’t be able to duck_ , he realized.

Through the maelstrom of chaotic thoughts and energies, Tex was like a beacon. He could almost see her flinching, somehow managing to pick up that something was about to happen, as if she could read him.

_Alliso-_

The feeling of his ribs crushing was the most horrible pain Church had ever felt.

***

The strength seeped out of Caboose so fast he completely missed his shot. His hammer slammed into the grass and he lost his grip on his weapon. The marauder in front of him tried to shuffle back as far as he could with only one functioning foot.

Caboose looked up. Why had he done that? Why had Church taken back all those _little spells and things_ he used on him to make him stronger while he was still fighting?

The blonde marauder tried to catch Tex’s attention, since she always seemed to know what Church was up to, but to no avail.

He heard a cry, a tiny whisper of a wail as something was crushed and flung. He turned to his left… and saw Church’s body hitting the side of the wagon, falling into a lifeless lump onto the ground, the soft dust swirling into his mop of black hair. The horses neighed and skittered away a few meters. Blood, oh the most _horrible_ thing on this planet, seeped out into the dirt.

The whole battlefield seemed to have frozen in time.

“Church?” He couldn’t speak. His voice didn’t carry, stuck in his throat like a horrible lump of fear. _Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no. Church can’t be hurt. He’s never hurt, he_ helps _people who are hurt. He helps people like me. He’s not supposed to hurt. He’s not supposed to bleed. He’s not supposed to be-_

“CHURCH!” The enraged cry of the assassin broke him out of his train of thought. A whimper escaped, and he wasn’t certain if it was a tear that fell from his eyes or just the sweat dropping.

Tucker’s head whipped back, and his eyes doubled in size when he saw the seemingly lifeless mage on the ground. He broke into a run, ducking out of the way of the few bandits who dare to raise a sword his way. Wash and Sarge looked up as Tex whipped past them, both of the warriors not noticing what had caught their attention. Behind him, Caboose heard Simmons gasp.

Tucker and Tex reached Church’s assailant simultaneously, and both of them palmed their smaller daggers to slice the mace wielder’s knees. The assailant cried and buckled under, knees hitting the grass.

Caboose barely registered Simmons moving until he saw a flash of maroon and grey cloth, his arms raised at the mace wielder. Said bandit staggered forward and reached for his mace.

“Not a chance.” Simmons seethed, his arms raised. Fire sprouted from his fingertips in a never-ending fountain of flame. The mace wielder’s skin crackled and steamed, his body frozen like a bizarre statue. He was long gone, still the mage emptied his flames upon the corpse. 

Tucker and Tex reached the mage, both kneeling down into the dust in front of him.

 _I can’t see. I have to see. I have to make sure he’s fine._ Caboose’s body didn’t move an inch. He almost growled at his own ineptitude, though he swallowed it as it came up his throat.

A small twinge of pain ripped through him. His head whipped forward.

The marauder with the crushed foot had moved again. He was shakenly holding on to a two-handed sword , the hilt pointed forward towards Caboose’s chest.

“Payback, you dumb ox.” He snarled.

Caboose’s brow furrowed. He looked down to follow the blade. It pointed forward towards his chest and it went… past the mail, in between his plackart and cuirass… It went straight through him.

_Oh, that it why it hurts._

His gaze fell back to the marauder.

“You are trying to hurt me.” He said explanatory.

The marauder’s victorious smile faltered. He looked back and forth between the sword skewering Caboose’s belly and the calm look on his face.

His eyes started to shake and he lost his grip on his weapon. Caboose grabbed the hilt of the sword currently pointing out through his back. The swordsman staggered back.

“Y-y-you’re not-“ He stammered, forgetting his crushed foot for a second. He tried to move backwards, yelped in pain and fell back. “What the hell _are_ you?!”

Caboose scrunched his nose together and tried to ignore the man shuffling backwards.

 _Now… how to get this sword out_ … He grabbed at it and started to pull slowly, closing his eyes at the sight of the blood. _I do not like blood. Even if it is just my own. It is still sticky…_

“Why aren’t you- You-You freak!” The marauder shrieked.

Anger laced through the blonde before he could bite it back. He felt it rise through his chest, like being submerged into water. Heavy pressure of rage. The words hit him. _You freak_.

“No.” He said quietly. A small twinge of fear shot through the rising anger when he heard his own voice. _Do not growl at people, Mikael,_ he told himself. _Not even at bad people who stab you_.

He grabbed the sword again and pulled at it more. It was almost out of his stomach, the dull ache giving way to a numb feeling. He felt the blood trickle out of his back and stomach.

“G-get away from me, you freak!” The marauder waved at him, as if Caboose was a fly he could just swat away.

 _Freak_.

“No.”

The blood smelled differently now. It didn’t have that acridity and that heavy… iron waft to it. It smelled clear. Like a fresh water spring.

Caboose looked at the blood seeping out of the marauder’s foot. It smelled like fresh water.

“Oh no.” He whispered. “No, no. Very bad. I have to be quick.”

He pulled out the sword and looked over at the man in front of him.

“You have to stay still.” He explained.

“W-what?”

“If we do not hurry, it will get here. And you will hurt a lot more.” He raised the sword and cleaved the man in half.

The smell disappeared. He scrunched his nose again. The pressure around him slowly dripped away. He smiled to himself.

_Church would be proud. I stopped it all by myself-_

_Church._

“Oh.”

He removed his helmet and threw it on the ground, joining the rest of his Guild members around their lifeless healer, save for Simmons who was still roasting the mace wielders corpse like it was dinner. Dust swirled up around his feet when he stopped.

He couldn’t see Church. Caboose decided to do the impolite thing as he grabbed the back of Grif’s coat, hoisted him into the air and moved him back so that he could take his spot. The hunter sputtered but spared him any comment. Caboose kneeled in front of his friend.

“Caboose, you’re bleeding!” Cried the Seer, whom had just emerged from beneath his hiding spot. “Stay still.”

“I am not hurt, lemon cake.” Caboose responded, shaking away the smaller man’s arm.

Tex was issuing orders at Tucker and Wash, all three of them grabbing pieces of cloth from their own attire to make bandages. The mage’s midriff was a mess of ripped armor, cloth and flesh. Church’s head rested in Tex’s lap, raven locks of clinging to his increasingly paling face.

 _He looks-_ Caboose shook his head. _No, he is fine. He is Church. Church will always be fine._

“Caboose.” Tex grabbed his arm, her voice so unnervingly calm it was obvious that she was hiding a storm of emotions hidden beneath it. “Can you carry him to the wagon?”

He tried to respond, but his bottom lip quivered. He bit it and settled for a small nod.

“We need to move him. We’re hours away from Kingslight, we might not get there-“ She stopped herself. “Just grab him.”

“Hold on.” Simmons’s voice rang clear amidst the quiet whispers. They looked up and saw the fire bursting from his fingertips coming in smaller spurts now, like he was running out. His face shone with sweat, and in his eyes danced a feverish energy. Finally, the fire died out, and he staggered for a second.

Grif was up next to his side in a blink, clutching his side, whispering something to him.

“I’m fine.” Simmons muttered to him. Then he looked at the rest of them near the healer. “I’ve emptied the offensive energies. I think I can heal him a little bit. Just enough to make sure he survives the trip. Just let me gather some neutral energy and I can fix him up.”

“So that’s why you-“ Tucker’s brow furrowed when his gaze fell upon the charred marauder. “Ah.”

Simmons sat down near Church’s head, right next to Tex. He took a deep breath and held his hand above Church’s chest.

Tex grabbed him.

“If you hurt him.” She said coolly. “I will drown you in poison.”

Grif’s eyes narrowed. Simmons met her gaze, trying to hide a small flinch at the strong grip she had on his arm. “Yeah, I-I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll leave with a cliffhanger before I head off to my job, happy friday! Working the whole weekend; huzzah for healthcare, where weekends and holidays do not matter xD~~


	11. Wash has daddy issues…it’s not what you think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided that (most of) the Freelancers come from powerful Houses of the Potentia Commonwealth when I made this story. Which was all good and fun, until I realized that we basically know NOTHING about the Freelancers's families. While I'm happy that it gives me free reign to create characters, I am personally a bit uncomfortable about the numbers of OCs here. They won't take over the story, I promise!

** Emporó road, a few miles south of Kingslight **

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fuck. Grif, check the horses, we’re gonna have to speed it up to get back in time!”

“On it!”

Wash stood by, watching Tex order the Guild around with a cold tone. Grif ran by him to calm the spooked horses while Simmons rolled up his sleeves once more to assess the damage to Church’s abdomen.

“Is there anything I can do?” He said.

“No.” Replied Tex.

Wash opened his mouth but found himself with little to say. Instead he backed away and let the remaining Guild work. He looked around for something to assist anyone with, feeling terrible that all he did in the moment was to look confused and agitated.

Grif had managed to calm down the frightened horses and held the reins loosely, checking damages on the wagon. Franklin, Tex and the Blues huddled around the eerily silent healer while Simmons hyperventilated his way through a spell. And Sarge stood looking at the dead bodies of their assailants, seemingly going through their belongings.

“What are you doing?” Wash said quietly, turning to the Red leader.

“Son, I don’t know how often you Freelancers get attacked by random mobs-“ Sarge fished out a dagger and used it to cut off a piece of the surcoat from the woman assumed to be the leader. The older man stood up, his armor creaking slightly. He tossed the fabric to Wash. “-But we sure as hell don’t. Seen that before?”

Wash turned the fabric around. It was the odd symbol sewn in on the breast of the surcoats, a symbol all of their fallen adversaries had worn. It looked quite similar to that of an arrowhead, only surrounded by other odd shapes.

“I can’t make any sense of it, I’m afraid.” Wash said as he pocketed the fabric. “But I’ll make sure to consult someone about it.”

“Bullhonky.” Sarge cursed as he gently nudged the body on the ground. “Should’ve kept one of them alive.”

Wash huffed. “I suppose so. Heat of the moment.”

He turned to the pyromancer for a moment. Simmons wiped his brow as sweat dropped down, his mouth a fine line, but he didn’t seem as panicked as before. “What do you think, sergeant? Is he going to make it?”

“Simmons is a good man.” Was Sarge’s response. “He’ll keep the despicable Blue alive.”

The former Freelancer sputtered and turned to him with a shocked face. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, beg all you want, son.” Sarge said and patted Wash’s shoulder as he passed him.

“Wash!”

He turned to the caller, and found Tex waving to them. “Move it or we’re leaving you.”

“Right away.” Wash said and jogged towards the wagon.

Church had been loaded onto the back, laying still in the middle while Simmons, Tucker and Franklin crowded around him. Caboose stood at the back, rearranging some of their gear to make way for the people on the benches.

“Perhaps I can carry something if you can’t find somewhere to store it?” Wash suggested, nodding towards a few sacks Caboose held in his arms.

“Yes, please.” Caboose said quietly and handed him one before taking a few more items from the back.

“That’s good enough, Caboose.” Tex said. “I think the horses can take it. Wash, Sarge, big guy; you’re on the ground.”

Wash and Caboose nodded immediately but Sarge sighed.

“Damn, dirty blues.” He said and shook his head as the horses started walking in a brisk pace.

“Is he alright?” Wash asked, and he almost found himself jogging to keep up with the wagon.

Tucker didn’t respond, or simply didn’t hear, but Simmons looked up from his patient.

“I think so. I mean, it’s not _really_ what I usually do but I stopped the bleeding.”

“How are his injuries?”

“I don’t know, man.” Simmons said shrilly. “Blunt force trauma or something like that? Inner bleeding and shit? I don’t know. I thought he’d be up by now.”

Wash ransacked his brain for an answer. “You did the right thing. We’ll get him help, do you have a… a medicus of your own? A doctor you employ?”

“I understood like… _three_ of those words.” Grif muttered to Tex in the front. The Freelancer muttered a response, but Wash couldn’t hear it.

Simmons did a grimace and turned to Tucker, who just shook his head.

“You’re looking at him, fencer.” Said the rogue, nodding towards the incapacitated healer.

“Oh, oh!” Franklin raised his hand. ”We can ask the Grand Medicus!”

Wash’s brow furrowed. “Dr Grey from the Curia Regis? Isn’t she away?”

“Nope.” Franklin shook his head excitedly. “I saw her on her way to the Tower of Thought, near the keep. She’ll be home!”

_A physician inside the Meteor Fortress keep, then. A place I am not quite fond of visiting at the moment._

“Why am I getting a feeling that a _Grand_ whatever is going to be really fucking expensive?” Tucker muttered.

“Quite.” Wash admitted. “She’s the Royal Physician, _and_ has a seat at the lesser royal court. We’re not getting an audience from her, Franklin, I’m sorry.”

Franklin waved dismissively. “We’ll just tell her he caught a rare virus and she’ll be all over it.”

“To quote the fancy fencer-“ Grif said. “ _’I beg your fucking pardon_?’”

“I wouldn’t-“ Wash started to protest at the hunter’s poor mimicry. His mother would have his head had he uttered a curse.

“Grif, hurry it up.” Tex said coolly. “I don’t want Church dead, believe it or not.”

“One day we’ll get the Blues.” Sarge muttered, looking up to the sky as if to address a higher power. “One day.”

The journey turned quiet and hasted, and soon Wash found himself drenched with sweat. He kept a semi-steady pace behind the wagon, trying to find a good way to carry the heavy sack Caboose had given him earlier. The heaving canopies of the oaks soon gave way to fields, and in the corner of Wash’s eye he could see streams and rivers and fishing boats.

 _Almost there_.

Wash let his eyes rest on the healer. His color had started to return, and his face no longer looked like the eerie opposite of his pitch-black hair. He hadn’t opened his eyes, though, and Wash couldn’t help but worry slightly. He could see Tex in his peripheral, and her stiff shoulders and straight back spoke of that as well.

Every now and then they’d come across a rider, or another wagon, filled with curious onlookers staring at the group. Wash couldn’t help but smile; they probably looked like a travelling circus. With Caboose and Sarge still in armor, a few passing by even opted to walk through the thick grass instead of the road.

When the domed, whitewashed keep of the Meteor Fortress came into view, Grif picked up the pace and Wash soon found himself in a run. They passed cottages, fields of wheat and apple orchids, and it soon gave way to the more structured and complex infrastructure of the capitol. They passed one gate, then another, and after the third one Wash found himself very tired of them. He had never considered how many walls and portcullises and gates fenced the city in until he had to run past them at a brisk pace.

“Are we still on this insane task to try asking Grand Medicus for her help?” Wash huffed, his breath short.

“It’s not _insane_.” Franklin protested. “She’s the best in the nation.”

“That’s not the point I’m arguing, Frankl- _Seer_ Franklin.” A passing guard caught the eye of the Royal Seer in awe and Wash saw it fit to quickly return to proper etiquette. “She’s helped me with my headaches at times, I know of her talent. But why would she help us?”

“Because I can ask nicely.” Franklin winked. “People like me, y’know.”

“True.” Tucker said. “Donut’s the only one the whole Guild actually likes.”

“Hooray!” Franklin cheered as Wash just shook his head and sighed.

“How are his injuries?” Wash said, quietly this time. Every now and then a person would try to get a quick glance into their wagon and sputter in surprise when they came across the seemingly unconscious man lying there. “Have you checked his pulse?”

“What’s that?” Tucker rolled his eyes and cut Wash off as he was about to respond. “No shit we’ve checked his pulse, and it’s _perfectly fine_. Hell, it’s almost like he’s sleeping… with like half of his stomach torn off.”

Simmons looked up suddenly then, as if realizing something.

“What is it?” Wash said.

“Nothing.” Simmons replied and fished out a maroon journal from his pockets. He tore through it quickly, scanning the pages and searching. “It’s nothing, I promise.”

“I somehow doubt that.” Wash responded curtly, but when the pyromancer didn’t respond he didn’t have it in him to argue.

When they finally approached the outer bailey, Wash was drenched in sweat. Sarge didn’t look much better, also on the ground in heavy plate armor. Caboose however, didn’t seem exerted in the slightest. He removed his helmet and coifs, both padded and mail one, and enjoyed the gentle sun while Wash had to lean on his knees and wipe the sweat from his brow.

The bailey was busy, with soldiers from the barracks mixing with the workers from the keep. Wagons came and went, more often with supplies to the kitchen than anything else, so they passed by without a glance at first.

But as people started to recognize both the top Freelancer and the Seer, a few heads turned. Franklin ignored it and seemed to search the crowd for a face he recognized.

“Halt!” A guard said, stopping their wagon short when they came closer to the inner bailey to the keep. “What is your business here?”

“I need to talk to Dr. Grey!” Franklin said. “We have something she might find interesting.”

 _Something_ , Wash winced.

The guard recognized Franklin then, and bowed quickly, changing his tone quickly. “I’m afraid she’s in a council meeting right now, Seer Franklin… At least she’s supposed to be.”

“We’ll go to her lab then.” Tex said, in a low tone that spoke of no other option. Again, the guard looked up to argue but paled considerably as he recognized her.

“It’s… I’ll lead you to the inner bailey.” He said. “Follow me.”

Grif spurred the horses on and they continued on to the castle grounds. The outer bailey was nowhere near as decorated as the inner, with the ground trampled with the constant streams of people and horses. Beautiful shrubbery and plants still decorated the walls and walkways, but it was nothing in comparison to the absolute beauty of the gardens in the keep.

Wash sighed and tried to shake the image away.

When they reached the inner portcullis, the last gate to the keep itself; the very house of the royal family, the guard exchanged a few words with another guard, who nodded and let them pass.

They took a right, still chaperoned by the previous guard, avoiding the main entrance in favor of the large, whitewashed tower to the right that Wash recognized with a slight grimace.

 _The Tower of Thought_.

“What business do you have with Dr. Grey?” the guard asked.

“A friend of ours have contracted something we thought might be of interest.” Franklin said, lying with an ease that made Wash huff with surprise.

The guard paled once more and stood on his toes to look into the wagon. “He’s not dead, is he?”

“Perish the thought.” Franklin waved away the concern, although a twinge of worry hid amidst the calm tones. “We simply put a sleeping spell on him, to ease his worries.”

Simmons opened his mouth to argue, but yelped when Franklin kicked his shin. The latter regarded with guard with a gentle smile. “May we proceed?”

“Of course.” The guard sputtered and gathered himself once more. “My apologies, I was merely worried that it would be something contagious.”

“Nothing to worry about.” Franklin said. “Our healers have made certain it is safe.”

Wash grimaced once more.

The guard hesitated, biting his cheek. Wash couldn’t blame him. It might have been a good idea, in Franklin’s mind, but few would just let them pass with a _possibly contagious disease that one of our friends contracted_.

Wash pried his mind for another plan, but as he did so Franklin exclaimed a happy;

“Dr. Grey! Emily! Over here!”

From the tower came a young woman, pale with dark hair, with an easy smile and vibrant eyes. When she caught eye of the Guild, she waved back happily and continued on.

The guard rushed up to meet her, and Wash heard him report his findings to her. By the mention of the possible disease, her eyebrows flew up and an ecstatic glee made her face shine. She ran then, past the guard and up to the wagon.

“Hi Franklin! Where is it? Is it contagious? Where did you contract it- Hi Tex! Has he been spitting blood- Oooooooh better yet, spitting something _else_? Is it black like tar? It could be a stage 3 spirit possession if it is- oh hi Wash! How’s your head? You know what, I’m just gonna do my thing; we’ll talk after!”

Wash only bowed slightly to the manic doctor as she carried on. She grabbed the reins from a surprised Grif and lead them towards the tower, the stream of chatter from her mouth endless.

“Dr. Grey!” Wash tried to cut off. He jogged up to the other side of the horses, and saw her head peak up from behind the horse’s backs.

“Yes?”

“Do you believe you can fix him then?”

“Oh please, I haven’t encountered a disease I haven’t been able to contain…and then experiment on. Don’t you worry, I’ll figure out what it is in _no_ time.”

“Yes, about that…” Wash found himself unable to lie to her. It would break her -albeit disturbingly maniacal- heart when she found out their Guild member wasn’t carrying a new, exciting strain of virus.

Tex shot a warning glance and Franklin gently shook his head.

“He received quite a blow to the abdomen. Is this something you can look over?” The answer seemed to satisfy both Tex and Franklin, and Wash felt slightly more at ease. He didn’t lie about _that_ part.

Dr Grey groaned. “Boring, next.”

“Emily, please.” Franklin pleaded. “He’s hurt.”

She pondered it for a second. “Oh, _fine_. I’m sure the King wouldn’t want him dying either.”

“Pardon?” Wash said.

“There we go.” Her light tone was back as they approached the large oak door to the tower. “My lab is in the cellar. Now _who_ -“ She clapped her hands together excitingly. “-wants to carry him down there?”

“Caboose, go ahead.” Tex said and the large marauder lifted the mage, carrying him gently in his arms.

Wash knew it was a lie, but Franklin’s invention about the sleeping spell fit oddly well. His color was back now, and even though some of his dark locks laid sweaty and close to his skin he didn’t look as ill as he had done before. It seemed quite serene. Almost too-

“He’s breathing, right?” Wash said.

Tucker hopped down from the wagon to check. “Yup.”

“Great.” Dr. Grey said, tucking a dark strand behind her ear. “Can’t fit all of you down there with me, though. Who wants to go down? Anyone here squeamish?”

“I’ll skip.” Simmons and Grif said immediately.

“Nononono, that won’t do.” Dr. Grey grabbed the sleeves of the pyromancer. “You’re the mage who healed him, right? I want to know _all_ about that.”

“What?” Simmons screeched.

“Good luck.” Grif replied lazily with a grin, waving at his red-haired lover. “I’ll take the wagon down to the stables.”

Simmons looked like he was ready to barf.

In the end, all the Blues vouched for a spot in the lab with Simmons while the remaining Reds looked for something else to do, Wash found himself in the middle of it.

“I’ll see if I can find the Delta.” Franklin said, dusting off his pink vest before taking off.

“Need a ride down to the Guild?” Grif said to Wash as Sarge hopped up in the back. Tried to, more like it, as his armor made the action slightly less smooth.

“I’ll pass.” Wash replied. “I thought perhaps I’d stay here to see if Franklin returns with the Delta.”

 _To give him the journal. And then I can find Doc and continue on this mad quest Connie seems to have left me on_.

Grif only shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

As Wash saw the wagon slowly disappear down the crowd, a voice caught his attention;

“Goodness, is that David?”

Wash turned around with his shoulders up, readying himself to face the mocking Freelancers. But when his eyes found the one calling for him he found himself with a slightly dry mouth and an unstable heart rate.

Streaming from the Tower of Thought came a mix of women and men, around twenty in all. Dressed in finer attire, half of the people seemed intent on ignoring their advisors clamoring for their attention. The young woman who caught his attention, a few years older than Wash, was dressed in a dove blue attire; dress, cape, shoes and all. Her dark blonde hair was pinned with a teal pin and her hands were out in a greeting.

“Lady Grace.” Wash said, bowing as she approached.

“David.” Lady Grace smiled and kissed both his cheeks. She smelled of peppermint oil and fresh, clean air and Wash found himself with an onslaught of memories. “I’m _so_ glad to see you alive and well.”

“I’m quite a mess right now, my lady.” Wash said and backed away a few steps. “I wouldn’t want to ruin your clothes.”

“There’s this thing called _washing_ , David. I do believe it’s even in your family name.” She winked at him and Wash stared at the ground for a few seconds. “I heard you joined a Kingslight Guild after… well, after what happened.”

“As expected of the Grand Whisper, my lady. Nothing gets by you.” Wash nodded. “Has your seat on the royal court been kind to you?”

She waved his question away. “I’ve just spent the entire morning arguing the price of _fruit_ with Lord Julien. _Fruit_ , David. As the Royal Spymaster, you’d think more paramount things deserved my attention. The Curia Regis, bless it though, truly _does_ aid His Majesty in _every_ matter regarding the Commonwealth.”

She rolled her eyes, but a gentle smile- the one that always caressed her lips- painted her face in a nice glow.

 _Focus, David_.

The group that travelled with Lady Grace had stopped as well, some arguing and some perhaps eager to gawk at the former Freelancer. Some faces he even recognized.

“Lord Julien.” Wash said curtly and bowed slightly to an older, virile man with a sun-kissed face and streaks of grey in his dark brown hair. The gentleman sported a tan tabard, with his heraldry emblazoned in silver thread and fine jewelry.

The Lord responded with a warm smile and a nod towards him.

“All is well, my boy?” Lord Julien said. “You look quite tired. Home from travel?”

 _Home_ , Wash thought sadly and his eyes flickered to the Keep. _No longer my home._

Lord Julien seem to catch his mistake as well, a well-hidden grimace covering his face. Lady Grace bit her lower lip, and the air turned awkward.

“A Guild member is receiving care from the Grand Medicus, actually. We met some trouble on the road.”

“Goodness.” Grace said and placed her hand on her chest. “Are you injured?”

“I’m quite alright, my lady.” Wash managed a weak smile.

“The Grand Medicus? Dr. Emily?” Lord Julien pondered. “I’ve been cooped up in the tower for too long; I didn’t even notice her absence in the meeting.”

“We all needed fresh air after such an _exhilarating_ and animated discussion.” Grace laughed. “Think of the _price of the apples,_ my lord.”

“Spare me.” Lord Julien responded gently. He nodded to the two of them and continued on, his advisors following his every step.

“I suppose I should carry on as well.” Grace sighed. “I have yet _another_ meeting. Do give the Stray my regards, won’t you?”

“Pardon?” Wash said.

“That dark-haired one my dear uncle was so fond of. And _do_ give my regards to the rest of the Reds and Blues as well.” She fixed the collar of heir cape with a mischievous smile. “The pretty one with the eyes was _so_ kind to me when I went to visit their Guild Hall.”

Wash found himself unable to speak yet again, and he felt that most of her words had gone over his head. He opted for a small bow to her as she left, her own retainers in tow.

 _The court suits you, Lady Florida_ , Wash thought, and seeing her leave tugged at his heart strings slightly.

He found himself staring at the ground, trying to compose himself. His clothes were dry now, and somewhat stiff with the sweat turning the fabric rigid and rancid. He thought of Grace, her smile and the way the corner of her eye wrinkled when she laughed, and coughed and picked at the fabric of his shirt.

Unfortunately for him, he realized soon that he was not alone. For a second, he believed that most of the crowd had dissipated, but when Grace first caught his attention, he had apparently lost the ability to count.

He saw a pair of feet, three in fact, and looked up. Two of them he recognized faintly, standing quietly to the side like statues, but it was the one directly in front of him that made his mood sour.

Greeting him was a man with a pale, stern face and blonde hair turned grey ages ago. His moustache was oiled and fine, his hair kempt and pulled back. Sharp eyebrows over equally sharp, grey eyes. They spoke of intellect and, at the moment, barely controlled rage. His attire spoke of wealth, with a dark grey houppelande and the decorated sleeves of the yellow doublet showing. The Grand Sword, with a seat on the Curia Regis and the Royal Master of War. Lord Jonathan XII Washington.

“Father.” Wash said. He had hoped that he would sound monotone and stoic but his voice carried a streak of uncertainty that always seemed present when Lord Jonathan was there.

”Some nerve on you; disobeying His Majesty’s direct orders. I believe I was there when the order was made. _You_ are not welcome here.”

“His Majesty is absent, sir.” Wash said, hands behind his back. He stood as straight as he could muster, but still felt dwarfed by the other man. “I was given a quest by the Delta himself, acting as the Sovereign while the King is away on business.”

“And you think a royal decree no longer carries weight the second His Majesty turns his back?” Lord Washington said, his voice clear and cold. “You are to leave these premises.”

“Will all do respect, sir, I am not.” Wash tried to will his hands to stop shaking. “I have business here, with a Prince, as well as a member in Dr. Grey’s care. I will not abandon my duties-“

“Does your quest include loitering around here?”

Wash could not truly argue the truth of that. “I wasn’t, I- No, sir, I apologize.”

Lord Washington turned to the two servants following him. “Leave us.” He said coolly before turning to Wash. “What do you think you’re doing, pestering Lady Grace like a beggar?”

 _She talked to me first_ , he swallowed the most childish argument and grit his teeth.

“It was a mere greeting, sir, nothing more.”

“Do not lite to me, I would hope it would be beneath a Washington. As would acting belligerent enough to be thrown into a cell; what’s this I hear about Éric dragging you out of holding like a drunkard? Do you have any shame left in you? Or did it all evaporate with your rank?”

Wash felt his mouth turn dry. Of all the people to hear about his wretched night, his father would be the one he’d hoped would somehow stay ignorant. He didn’t say anything and Lord Washington’s eyes darkened further.

“You’re to stay away from Avalanche. I don’t want your immodesty to spread.”

Wash had expected as much, and yet felt like a physical punch to hear that he was barred from entering his own home. He cleared his throat and stood as tall as he could muster.

“Sir.” He said, hoping that his voice wouldn’t falter. His mind seemed suddenly vacant. He barely noticed his father barreling past him, leaving him to his thoughts.

He sighed then, and his sight became blurry with tears.

“Wow. He seemed like a dick.”

Wash looked up once more, only to find Tucker waltzing towards him from the tower. The former Freelancer tried to blink his tears away, and he took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders.

“My father.” He said simply.

“Yeah, I could see that. You guys color coordinate more than we do.” Tucker rolled his eyes. “Do you ever wear anything _not_ grey and _not_ yellow? Just for fun?”

“Says the man with a teal cloak.” Wash muttered, quiet enough so that the Tucker couldn’t hear.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Wash sighed and rubbed his face. “Nothing. How does it look in there?”

Tucker shrugged. “I don’t understand their medical nonsense. That Emily chick is _insane_. But… I think he’ll be alright. We have a little bit more room, wanna come?”

“I…” Wash hesitated. He was hoping he could talk to the Delta discreetly, to perhaps tell him about Connie’s message or even ask for leave to find her on his own. He figured the less he had to deal with the Guild, the better. They didn’t seem _too_ fond of him, and the feeling was mutual, and he still wanted to avoid them tagging along.

 _Don’t tell_ , she had said.

“Dude, you can hang out here if you’re not sure.” Tucker said. “I just figured I’d offer. You’d bitch about it otherwise.”

“Oh, would I now?” Wash looked up sharply.

“You look angrier than usual.” Tucker commented, his eyebrows raised. “Daddy pissed you off?”

Wash felt his anger rise -taking the bait- but contained himself and only rolled his shoulders. He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes with one hand.

“Let’s just go. You said there was room in the lab?”

“…Yeah?” Tucker balanced on the balls of his feet, swinging backwards a bit as if to increase the distance between them.

Wash started marching towards the tower, his previous thought of waiting for the Delta and Franklin forgotten.


	12. Their journey is starting. Cue the music

** Capitol of Potentia, Kingslight **

** Tower of Thought **

The lab was on one of the lower floors, with the top of the walls sporting small windows allowing sprinkles of light into the room. Vials, beakers and scrolls filled the shelves, and an operating table was placed firmly at the center. Caboose stood by the staircase, fidgeting with his hands while Simmons read the back of some of the books Dr. Grey had scattered around the back area.

At the center, by the incapacitated healer, stood both Dr. Grey and Tex, the latter standing fixed at Church’s head while the manic doctor rushed around the room in excitement. Church had been stripped of his torn and bloody shirt, and only bandages covered his abdomen.

“Is everything well in here?” Wash announced himself.

“It’s fine.” Simmons said quietly, his face slightly red.

“Simmons fucked up.” Tex said with a smirk.

The pyromancer grumbled at that, grabbed a book and pretended to read it.

Wash looked between them. “What do you mean? What happened?”

“Oh, he only messed a little bit with the pineal gland when he healed his injuries.” Dr. Grey said as she rushed past, said; _“Need this!”_ and nicked the book Simmons was reading, and then turned back to her patient. “And the liver, and the spleen and the overall scar tissue.”

Simmons took another book and hid behind it as well, but not before Wash caught his face burning with shame, his eyes downcast.

“At least he didn’t leave him to bleed out.” Tucker added.

“Oh, absolutely. And-“ Dr. Grey exclaimed happily, and the Guild jumped. “- _I’m sure_ he won’t mind his lower abdomen healing terribly. People like scars.”

“Uh-huh.” Tex said, gently removing a lock of hair from Church’s face. Only now did she look up at Wash. “Dr. Grey is trying to remove the _sleeping spell_.”

“I see.” Wash said curtly, grimacing. He wasn’t certain how long they could keep up Franklin’s small lie.

“If there was such a thing as a sleeping spell, I would have known about it by now.” Dr. Grey said happily. “So there’s no need for that.” She turned to Simmons with a grin, “But for someone who didn’t intend to make one, it was actually not bad. Might want to make that one officially. I’m sure the Tome would appreciate a few more spellcrafters!”

_Apparently, we couldn’t keep it up from the beginning_. “Dr. Grey, my apologies. We didn’t mean to withhold the truth from you. It was born out of concern for our comrade-“

“Mother of the sky, you talk like a fucking dictionary.” Tucker shook his head. Wash turned back and glared at the rogue.

“Meh.” Said Dr. Grey and waved the apology away. “I’m just going to decrease the melatonin, if you don’t mind.”

She turned to Simmons then with a smile, but the pyromancer only muttered something and turned a page.

“He’s healed, then?” Wash asked, stepping closer.

“Oh, absolutely.” Dr. Grey responded. “He’ll be up and about in a minute or two.”

“Oh?” Wash said. “Forgive me, I can’t say I know much about-“

“I _might’ve_ accidentally sent a signaling hormone to the pineal gland, and upped the dosage of melatonin.” Simmons admitted, his voice quiet from behind the cover of _The Arcane Healer and her effect on modern medicine_. “Healing is not my strong suite, I fucked up.”

“He’s sleeping?” Tucker said. “Actually sleeping?”

“Church had naptime without me.” Caboose muttered, his face frozen in a look of utter betrayal.

“Yup.” Dr. Grey said, examining her notes.

“Motherfucker.” Tucker walked past Wash to walk to the other side of Church. “I thought he was going to fucking _die_.”

“He probably would have, his wound looked nasty.” Dr. Grey’s tone was _far_ too happy for the harshness of her words, and Wash felt even more uneasy than before. “Quiet now.”

“You want us to leave?” Wash asked. “So that you can concentrate?”

“Nope, I just think your voices are very annoying.” Dr. Grey responded, to the short chuckle of Tex.

Wash opened his mouth, but opted for silence. He leaned back against the railing of the stairs and let Dr. Grey do whatever she set out to do.

It was a few minutes of stillness as the Grand Medicus did her job, humming songs and whispering instructions to herself. On occasion, she would raise her hand above Church’s heart, and a gentle glow shone from her fingertips. Then she’d nod, write something down and continue on. Wash didn’t know enough on restoration magic -hell, magic in general- so he did his best to blend in with the walls.

Tex didn’t move an inch, even when Dr. Grey asked her to move. She simply looked at her and then back to Church. Tucker hovered around as well, but moved swiftly out of the way whenever the doctor neared him.

“There.” She announced after a while, scribbling down a few words in a journal. “Now we wait.”

And then she rushed past Simmons, took a few books from the shelves and promptly dumped them on a table to read.

Simmons looked to Wash, but he only shook his shoulders.

“Don’t look at me.” He muttered.

Simmons made a face and moved up to Church, followed closely by a careful Caboose. Wash felt left out and decided to do the same. It didn’t occur to him until he also stood around the sleeping healer how odd it was for all of them to just stand around their member in a circle. Then Tucker started snickering.

“Man, this is so fucking stupid.”

Wash had to bite his cheek to agree.

“We should scare him.” Tucker said, hands raised with bright eyes like he just had an epiphany. “Let’s fucking scare him.”

“No.” Wash said immediately while Tex said “Yes.”

Wash turned to Tex with his eyebrows raised. “I thought you…” He let the sentence trail off by itself, awkwardly coughing.

The sound of Church stirring broke Wash’s train of thought. Both Tucker and Tex lurched forward in worry – _so much for scaring him_ , Wash thought – and nearly knocked their heads together. Caboose gently guided their heads back and tapped the healer’s forehead.

“Don’t.” Wash suggested.

“Yeah, don’t.” Church agreed, earning the yelp from those around the table.

The healer yawned and rubbed his eyes, trying to blink away the sleep and grogginess. He tried to rise, but got stopped by Tex’s hand on his shoulder.

“Down, boy.” She said. “You shouldn’t be up just yet.”

“ _I’m_ the healer. I’ll tell _me_ when I should and shouldn’t get up.” Church muttered and tried to shake away her hand.

“Did I stutter? Sit.”

“You said _down_.” Church said quietly, almost like a whine. But he laid down again, blinking a few times.

“How are you feeling?” Simmons said.

“Like I’m surrounded by assholes who won’t let me be.” His last words came out as a sigh, as if he was falling asleep once more. His eyes fluttered close for a second before Tex intervened.

“Tough shit, up you go.” She grabbed his shoulders once more.

Church’s eyes narrowed. “You just fucking told me to lay down.”

“Yes, so that you don’t get hurt. I’ve changed my mind; up and at ‘em!”

“Perhaps we should…” Wash struggled for the words. “Exercise caution… with his wounds and all.”

The two of them turned to look at him as if he’d just interrupted a particularly amorous moment. Wash raised his hands in defeat, sighed and turned to the Grand Medicus.

“Any word of advice, Dr. Grey?”

“Always eat breakfast.” She said, turning a page.

Tucker snickered. “Yes ma’am.”

“Dr. Grey?” Church’s eyebrow furrowed and he tried, once more, to sit up straight. This time, Tex did nothing to hinder him and Caboose even popped up next to him to put a gentle hand on his back for support.

Church flinched slightly as he took a breath and his hand flew down to cover his abdomen. “Ouch.”

“It’s going to leave a scar.” Dr. Grey said. She approached once more, tossing her book in a haphazard direction, causing Wash to duck in order to narrowly avoid it. She placed her hands on the operating table, scrutinizing the bandaged wound up close.

“Wait, wait, hold on.” The healer pinched his nose bridge with an agitated sigh. “Hang on.”

“Remember what happened?” Dr. Grey asked with a cheerful tone, still not looking at her patient.

“I remember getting clubbed to death by a marauder.” Church’s nose scrunched up. “This is a shit afterlife.”

“Do not worry, Church.” Caboose petted his head. “I am here for you.”

“You alright, man?” Tucker chimed in again, this time sounding a bit more serious.

Church rolled his eyes. “Yes, mother, I am alright. Light headache, but that’s about it.”

“I am _just_ that good.” Dr. Grey smiled to her patient; her hands slightly fidgety.

The healer only raised his eyebrows to her before he tried to move again, only to grunt slightly and grasp at his bandages. He cursed and winced, and Wash felt terribly sorry for him then.

“Maybe not _that_ good.” Simmons muttered.

“I’m amazed you’re up.” Wash said. “Ten minutes ago, we were worried that you were too far gone.”

“Aaw, you care.” Church said sardonically with the hint of a smile. A cough made him wince, but he waved away Tucker and Tex as they came to help him. When Caboose moved to, seemingly, pick him up for a hug the grumpy healer seemed to sense it immediately and went,

“No. Caboose, no. _Stay_!” The huge marauder whimpered and let his arms fall down his sides. The healer sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Can someone who’s _not_ Caboose try to explain what’s going on? Where am I?”

Wash decided this was a good time for him to take a step back as several members of the Guild tried to retell the story of how their healer was grievously wounded. He saw Tucker gesture his way through how the marauder had hit him with his weapon, and then how Simmons had burnt him to a crisp, much to the embarrassed dismay of the pyromancer. The former Freelancer took a few steps back and leaned against a bookshelf, his fingers drumming against Connie’s navy journal.

Franklin was going to meet with the Delta, to give news of their findings. The journal, their attackers and so on. When Wash finally found some time to breathe and collect his thoughts, he found his mind too full; heavy with impressions, thoughts and events he had yet found time to digest.

He _had_ to find Connie; of that he was certain. How he was going to achieve it was secondary, but if she had been harmed, he had to ensure he’d do it as quick as possible.

Funding was going to be an issue. As much as that part of his brain that was still naïve and boyish clamored for him to get a quick horse and ride until he found her; he knew it was not the way. His family would not help him, his father would make sure whatever coin he’d ask for he would spend it on something else just to spite him. Trying to tell him it was to find Constantina Connecticut, a member of the great House of Connecticut wouldn’t work, regardless of how obsessed Jonathan XII was of the idea of family and legacy.

_Should I ask the Delta for help when he arrives? What if he asks me to continue the quest with_ \- his eyes focused on the Guild members in front of him. While their arguments were childish at best, they had a ferocity in their combat that surprised him immensely. Perhaps it _could_ work, for now. A temporary alliance, should the quest be given.

Connie’s own words told him to find Doc, to perhaps enquire about the _Perfect Rising_. Whether it was an official, sanctioned quest done by a full company or a single madman’s pursuit; he had his first clue.

He nodded to himself, relieved he had been able to sort some of his thoughts out. He wiped his brow, scratched his shaven head – he needed to top up on it, the short blonde strands were becoming incessant and itchy- and took a deep breath.

The door swung open, York stepping through it.

“Everyone alive in here?” He said, smiling nonchalantly.

“Just about.” Church said, now with one leg dangling from the operating table. Caboose still stood next to him with a hand on his back for support, but except for that he looked stable.

“Put a shirt on, man. We got a royal incoming!”

Church glowered at York and flipped him off, searching for something to cover himself with. In the end, he opted for a simple cotton tunic he swiped off of a table.

“Happy?” He said, and York snickered and rolled his eyes.

“How did your first mission go?” York turned to Wash.

Wash couldn’t hide his grimace, and merely nodded towards Church’s wounds. York didn’t say anything, but he seemed to understand it well enough. They’ve been on dangerous missions before, and the Freelancers were accustomed to the idea of injury and death; but it was a somber subject.

York looked away then, peering out through the door. He stood slightly straighter and did a quick bow as the Delta marched in, followed by Franklin.

Wash stood up straight then, hands behind his back and his chin propped up. The Guild around him looked somewhat lost, but managed to offer some sort of greeting. Caboose did a curtsy, to the irritated sigh of Church who turned over and whispered something to him. Both Simmons and Tucker seemed to copy Wash, looking in his direction before they decided on what to do. Tex and Church nodded, perfectly in sync, towards the eldest of the princes.

“Who were those who attacked you?” The Delta said, looking between Wash and Church.

_Straight to the point_ , Wash thought as he procured the piece of cloth Sarge had cut off of one of the bandits. He presented it to the Delta, who grabbed it swiftly from his hand and examined the symbol. York came up behind him, looking at it from across the Delta’s shoulder.

Wash bristled slightly and gently gestured for York to back off. His friend could bow to the King and show a modicum of respect every now and then, but he was far too comfortable around the princes. York only scrunched his nose at him and rolled his eyes.

“Recognize it?” the Delta lifted the cloth back to York, knowing exactly where he stood.

“No.” York admitted. He grabbed the cloth and turned it around. “Looks like an arrowhead.”

“I’ll have someone look into it.” The Delta concluded and turned towards the door. “Franklin!”

“Present!” Franklin cheered, popping up from behind the door.

“Apologies for making you run errands.” The prince voice was quite monotone, the apology sounding practiced. He handed the cloth to the Seer. “This needs to reach the ears of our council. Have the Grand State and Grand Whisper look into this. Lord Price and Lady Florida should be a sufficient force to find the source of this… arrowhead.”

Franklin smiled, nodded and took off.

“As for your quest-“ the Delta turned back to them with a gentle sigh. He seemed tired, the shadows under his eyes standing out against his toned skin. “-I’ve heard news of a journal. Give it here.”

Wash fished the journal from his person without a second thought. The prince skimmed through the pages, stopping on the many drawings Connie had sewn into the pages.

“ _Perfect rising_.” He said, looking up to Wash. The former Freelancer felt himself turn cold when the otherworldly green eyes peered at him. “Is this something you know of?”

“What’s that?” Church said, popping down from the operating table. He walked forward with a brisk pace, hand on his abdomen.

Wash bit the inside of his cheek. His relationship with the Guild would surely take a turn for the worst should the healer see he had withheld information from then. Normally, he could hope the other person would be sensible enough to not quarrel in front of a crowd…But the healer -albeit Wash had not known them for too long- didn’t seem to shy away from argument in front of others.

“I believe…” Wash trailed off, not finding his words. Church stopped next to him, his eyebrows raised and waiting for an answer. “I believe it’s Conni- CT, _Grand Seer CT_ who tried to send us a message of where she was going.”

“Huh.” York said. “Convenient.”

“Logic dictates that she is perhaps missing by her own choice then.” The Delta said, reading through more of Connie’s hidden messages. “She seems eager to let herself be found.”

“She…” Wash found himself trailing off again.

_Find me. Don’t tell_.

But the Delta’s eyes seemed to bore into his mind, and Wash found himself unable to lie. “We were told that she was looking for a way to absolve me from my expungement by… breaking the Potentian Curse.”

The Delta regarded him coolly. “I see. Best we find her then quickly then. Should she be able to find a way to break it, you have my blessing to try to aid her.”

Silence hit the Guild then, a few of the members looking at each other in confusion.

“Find her.” The Delta clarified. “And if she has information on the curse, bring that information to me.”

“Always hungry for knowledge, ey Dee?” York said with a small smile.

Wash wanted to knock some sense into his friend, but the Delta seemed accustomed to his bodyguard’s lack of respect. A hint of a smile graced the royal’s lips before he donned the mask of indifference.

“Issuing quests is not something I normally do; I have little protocol on how to proceed.” The Delta stood straighter now. “But you are to continue on with your quest, and aid the Grand Seer with the curse if possible. All information is to go to me. You will be given horses, food and funding should the quest require it. You can turn to the Grand Board for requests. I’ll make sure they know of this.”

“Are we… all of us…?”

“Correct. The Guild and all of its members. That includes you, Washington. Dismissed.” The Delta gave the journal back to Wash and turned so quickly he only had time to see his green coat swivel in the wind before the prince disappeared. York winked at him, then followed him out.

“Guess we’re stuck with each other, ey?” Tucker said then.

“So…” Church’s hand came down on Wash’s shoulder, the grip tight and somewhat hostile. “What was that about a _Perfect Rising,_ fencer?”

Wash sighed then. “My apologies. I believe we have some things we need to discuss.”

“Good luck with that.” Tex said, poking Wash in the back as she climbed the small steps to the door.

Wash’s eyebrows flew up. “You’re not-“

_No, of course not_ , he realized. She was a royal guard, not a Guild member for hire.

“I suppose this is where our partnership ends then.” He said formally, nodding towards her.

“Yeah, yeah. “She said dismissively and waved away his words. “I’m sure I’ll have to come rescue your asses anyway.”

Church rolled his eyes at that, but only got halfway before they flew open as Tex planted a chaste kiss on his cheek.

“Don’t die, dipshit.” She said, gripping his jaw harshly. “I’m not staying in this shit world alone.”

Church laughed then, short and abrupt like a bark. “Noted, bitch. I’ll see you soon.”

She turned around and walked out with a brisk pace.

“Let’s get this straight-“ Tucker said, pointing at the door. “ _You_ , with the romantic skills of a fucking kettle, have a girlfriend while _I_ , Dr. Love extraordinaire, am sadly alone? Where’s the fucking justice in that?”

“Ex.” Church added.

“Exes don’t kiss each other on the cheek?!” Tucker almost shrieked in protest.

“You don’t strike me as the type of man who does relationships.” Wash pointed out. _Even though I very much agree with you right now_.

Tucker looked at him like he just now realized they were in the same room. He raised his arms, looking offended. “Dude.”

“I guess we have a quest to go on, then.” Simmons said, rolling on the balls of his feet.

“Guess so.” Church rolled his shoulders. “Can’t catch a break, can we?”

“Told you we should’ve stayed a second-level Guild.” Tucker said. He turned to Wash. “So, fencer, what’s our first clue?”

Wash brought forth the journal. He tapped at it a couple of times, lost in thought. Going on the journey alone had gone from a singular goal, the only option Wash had in mind, to a complete impossibility. He couldn’t help but wonder how many months he would be stuck with the Guild.

With a deep breath, he flipped the pages to one of the paintings with the hidden description. “We need to find Doc.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now all we need is a little dramatic music as they climb a mountain in slow motion all Lotr-style. We got ourselves a quest, my friends!


	13. This chapter is cruel to albinos. You have been warned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give me a week of early morning shifts and my brain's gone forever. I remembered to update TODAY while at work like "oooooh crap" and raced home so I wouldn't forget. Oopsie.

** Capitol of Potentia, Kingslight **

** Doc’s hut **

” _Perfect Rising_?” Doc asked.

It was the morning after the Guild had arrived to the Kingslight, all sweaty and bruised and dirty. They had had the opportunity to take baths, to tend to their wounds and to rest. Their attire was simple and their weapons at home in the Guild Hall, not certain if they had to leave the city. Church’s wound had healed at a remarkable rate, no doubt thanks to Dr. Grey’s expertise.

Wash remembered Tucker’s comment about his family color coordinating and couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the colorful cast surrounding him. Tucker had his absurd teal cloak that he never seemed to be without, or wash for that matter. But he wasn’t the only one. Simmons wore what looked like a simple, long maroon tabard over a dark grey shirt and pants, Grif’s shirt was oddly orange-ish and Church’s tunic was an intense cobalt. And then there was Sarge… who wore everything red, including his shoes and belt.

Wash sported a simple white tunic, tossing his first choice away after Tucker had made a snide comment about the colors; grey and yellow in typical Washington fashion. He felt oddly naked, used to more finer clothes, and he picked at his shirt with a grimace. He should’ve gone for his first choice, and just ignore the comments. But he was tired today, and didn’t need much mockery to snap back and snarl.

Doc’s hut could barely fit the whole Guild, and Caboose had to stay outside, his head popping in every now and then to listen to the conversation. The remaining Guild stood cramped inside it, competing for space with herbs and flowers and wheat.

“Yes.” Wash said. “We were told to talk to Doc. I know it’s just a nickname, but perhaps we’re lucky enough that you know something about it?”

Doc pondered, chewing his lip. “ _Rising_ , huh? I think it’s necromantic? I’ve heard my Master speak of it and he’s-“

He stopped there, hand over his mouth. His eyes flickered towards Wash, who only regarded him with a furrowed brow.

“I-I mean my Master did definitely not practice necromancy.”

“Good.” Wash said. “Since it’s illegal.”

He heard someone whistle innocuously in the back.

“So, necromancy?” Church said, partially hidden behind a garlic braid hanging from the ceiling.

“Y-yes.” Doc admitted, taking a sip of tea. “At least I think so. My Master is very knowledgeable, always searching for the most… difficult spell within each line of magic. Like a huge firewall for pyromancy, icebergs of cryomancy; that kind of thing. _Perfect Rising_ is… I guess it’s like bringing someone back permanently.”

“Like a thrall?” Tucker asked. “All ‘ _uuurgh, I am dead, I will do what my master tells me uuurgh’_?”

“Spot on.” Church snickered.

“Not exactly.” Doc shook his head. “I mean like bringing someone back _entirely_. Like a real resurrection.”

“Can it be done?” Wash asked.

“Not sure.” Doc sighed. “You’d have to ask my Master, and he’s not exactly here in Kingslight.”

“Great.” Tucker muttered. “Running across the country it is.”

Doc grimaced and took a few more sips from his tea. “Yeah… He’s in Nochkit.”

Wash’s brow furrowed as Simmons’s head shot up sharply.

“The Ghost Cliffs?” Wash asked. “So, he’s in a completely different nation?”

“Still in the Commonwealth.” Church pointed out.

“Yeah that’s great, Church; they speak Potentian.” Tucker rolled his eyes. “Like every motherfucker here. What else? How far is it?”

Wash sighed and leaned back against a wall.

Nochkit, often nicknamed the Ghost Cliffs, was an island to the west. Previously home to dragon-worshipping lunatics, or so the rumor went. Now it was a part of the Potentian Commonwealth, conquered ages ago, supplying the crown with iron, cattle, wheat, wool and, most importantly; spirits and liquor. The famed Nochkit autumn whiskey could lead better men to ruin. But what made Wash feeling cold and uncomfortable was the reason behind the nickname.

 _The Ghost Cliffs_. Said to be haunted to the degree that not one acre of land was free of malevolent spirits and ghosts roaming the country. He took little stock in superstition, but there was something to be said about the island’s eerie feel. If they were headed there, Wash wasn’t looking forward to it.

“We can reach it by ship.” He said, rubbing his face with one hand. “But it’s a long way west just to get to the harbor in Tempest. We’re talking two weeks, at least. If we ride hard.”

Tucker’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “Seriously?!”

“And then a month on ship to get to Backwash, the harbor city in Nochkit.” Simmons said. He turned to Doc. “That _is_ where we should go, yes?”

“Oh, are you…” Doc stopped himself, pointing between the members of the Guild. “Are you all… actually going to visit him? My Master? I wish you the best of luck on your journey if you do.”

“You’re going too, just a heads up.” Church said.

Doc looked around at the Guild, some shared his confused stare, and then back at the blue leader.

“Pardon?”

“We don’t exactly know the way to the man’s doorstep, we need a guide. _And_ it never hurts to have an herbalist who kinda knows what they’re doing. On the off chance we don’t catch your master, you’re our best bet and finding out where he could’ve gone. We’re not going on a two-month journey _hoping_ we’ll find him at home.”

 _Guess I can agree to that statement,_ Wash thought. _Could’ve been said with more class though._

Doc’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “B-but I have plants here in need of gardening. I can’t leave.”

Church raised his eyebrow and smiled in a way that Wash felt looked comically similar to the way the King would gaze upon some of his subjects when they protested something he had declared. A look that screamed ‘ _it’s quite endearing that you think your opinion matters’_.

“This is a quest of national importance.” Wash said, shaking his head as another twinge of pain appeared. “We would be most appreciative if you can part with some of your knowledge, Doc.”

“Dude, can’t we just go to the library and read up or some shit?” Tucker seemed really adamant about not leaving the realm at all. “You know, _before_ we all take off to a completely different country?”

“Of course, we should.” Wash rolled his eyes. “But we need to prepare for the journey regardless. We need to think about money, food for us and our horses, housing and so on. I say we don’t waste a minute here if it’s not needed.”

“Split up, then.” Church agreed. “Simmons, you and Doc can look for it on official records and whatever book on necromancy the library has.”

“Now, hold on here, blue.” Sarge chimed in, hands on his hips. “I do believe Simmons is a man of true, red honor?”

“Ugh.” Church rolled his eyes. “Go ahead.”

“Simmons!” Sarge turned to the pyromancer with a stern voice. “Do the thing.”

“Yes, sir!” Simmons saluted his sergeant quite happily, while the rest of the Guild looked on with a mix of confusion and exasperation.

“Our best bet would be the royal library.” Church continued. “Think we can ask the prince if we can look there?”

Wash nodded, chewing on his lip. “He _did_ seem eager to help us with our quest.”

“Dee’s very reasonable – _shut the fuck up, fencer_ -“ the healer was immediately ready to snarl back when Wash opened his mouth to criticize Church’s use of York’s nickname. “-So go there. Talk to a guard or whatever, or Donut if you can find him.”

“On it.” Simmons said as he grabbed the sleeve of the herbalist. “C’mon. You live really far away from the castle.”

“It’s better soil here for my flowers!” The herbalist protested as they closed the door behind them.

“I’ll go to the Grand Board.” Sarge smiled menacingly. “And wring every last coin from the Guildmasters. Maybe get myself a nice, proper, true blooded stallion.”

“Did you mean to say that out loud?” Tucker said, confused. “’Cause you just did.”

“You’re not going to the Guildmasters, Sarge.” Church said with an exasperated sigh. “No way in hell. You’ll just make it worse. I’ll go.”

“What a grand idea, _kettle.”_ Tucker said sardonically. “Could not think of a worse man for the job.”

The healer raised a brow and crossed his arms. “Are you volunteering to talk to Vic?”

Wash had never heard of said Guildmaster, but in his peripheral he saw Tucker’s shoulder rising like a cat hissing. He shook with a small noise of contempt.

“Never mind.”

“Thought so.” Church pushed himself off from leaning against a beam, walked straight into a hanging garlic braid, and then tried to regain some sense of authority by calling for Caboose.

“Yes?” the big man’s head popped in.

“We’re going to the Grand Board. If I lose it and start throwing iceballs at Vic, you’ll know what to do.”

“Best friend time!” Wash heard Caboose’s happy exclaim as the two of them left for the Grand Board. He watched Caboose close the door with a huge _bang_ before he turned back to Sarge and Tucker.

“I guess we should prepare ourselves then.” Wash said at last. It felt oddly empty without the healer yelling orders at every turn. “Even if we aren’t headed for Nochkit, I doubt Connie’s hiding in the capitol. We got a journey ahead of us, the only uncertainty is the length.”

“I hate travelling.” Tucker rolled his eyes. ”If we’re getting a wagon again, I call dibs on a seat.”

“ _If_ we get a wagon.” Wash responded. “We’ll, realistically, need to fill it to the brim with supplies and weapons. You can walk, or ride.”

“Fuck no, nu-uh.” Tucker shook his head. “You don’t get it. Horses hate me, I can’t stay on one for more than five minutes before the fucker tries to buck me off.”

Wash sighed, and he could feel his patience running thin. “You’ll learn.”

“While you lovebirds cackle on, I’ll find us some food.” Sarge said, shouldering in between them as he hurried to leave the hut.

They looked at each other then. Wash tried to ransack his brain for things they needed to prepare for the journey while Tucker rolled his eyes and looked around the hut.

“Guess that leaves the two of us then.” Wash said, in a tone he hoped was at least semi-friendly.

“I love being remembered.” Grif said suddenly, materializing between them, chewing on an odd herb.

They both yelped and jumped back.

“Mother of the _fucking_ sky where the fuck-“ Tucker started.

“I’m a better rogue than you. Sit down, boy.” Grif replied with a smug smile as he added another toothed leaf into his mouth.

“You know you’re not supposed to _eat_ thornapple, right?” Wash said, recognizing the herb quick enough. He slapped the leaves out of the hunter’s hands.

“Yeah, I knew that.” Grif responded as he discreetly spat out the mixture from his mouth. “How can something so awesome to smoke taste so fucking bad?”

“It’s also toxic.” Wash continued. “We should get Church to have a look at you.”

“I prefer death, honestly.” Grif spat out some more, then bent down to collect the clean leaves to put in his pouch. “And I’ll be fine. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“No, seriously-“

“Grif once drank a casket full of molasses without puking, dude.” Tucker chimed in. “If he says he’s fine-”

“I have the stomach of a god.” Grif said with a smug smile, eyeing more hanging herbs and dried flowers.

“We’re not staying here.” Wash grabbed the back of Grif’s orange shirt. “We need to find something to do. I won’t have the whole Guild out preparing for our journey while we’re here trying to steal Doc’s inventory.”

“Spoilsport.” Tucker and Grif said in perfect unison.

Wash tried his best to ignore the headache beginning to form. “We’re taking the Guild animals, yes? Let’s prepare them for the journey ahead.”

*****************

Donut’s soft slippers echoed against the polished stone floors. It felt loud and awkward, and every time he passed a guard, he felt his back turn stiff and sweat started to run down his face.

He wasn’t doing anything he shouldn’t do, _really._ He had simply borrowed a few books from a certain Prince’s personal bookcases. It wasn’t frowned upon at all, actually, and the Delta would often chastise his younger brothers for not returning the books to the royal library quick enough. He even tried to enforce a person to pay for their tardiness of returning books. It didn’t really fall through.

Donut was allowed to borrow the books, at least that what was the Delta had told him. But it wasn’t the Delta he had borrowed books from. The eldest of the princes had many interests, and he was surely on his way to the accomplishment of finishing every book Potentia had to offer; but this was a subject he had either chosen to ignore or had already read it.

 _Necromancy_.

Donut shuddered when he thought about it. When Simmons and Doc had arrived at the castle, looking for books on the subject Donut felt obliged to help. When the librarian couldn’t find some of the tomes, Donut had a guess one where to find them. Of all the sons King Leonard I had, there was one still living in the castle with a peculiar interest in the macabre, cruel and honestly slightly terrifying. And he would always regard it with the cool interest of a bored, potentially mad scient-

”Knock knock.”

Donut jumped, a high-pitched yelp escaping his lips. The books he had held closely to his chest slipped from his grasp and fell to the perfect, marbled floor.

He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. The tone alone would’ve given him away. Several titles and, quite frankly, _cruel_ nicknames popped through his head before he settled on the appropriate one.

_The albino freak. The Royal Ghost. Gary. Prince Garrett._

“The Gamma.” Donut said as he turned around to face the royal, an awkward smile plastering his face.

Facing him was a young man with features almost completely devoid of colors. His skin was pale and every hair on his face; eyebrows, eyelashes and mane were white. His eyes seemed almost a light violet when the sun hit them, and his attire was a mix of greys, whites and a gentle blue.

While his looks could stand out in a crowd, the way he spoke and moved sounded like his entire expressive range was on the ‘monotone’ end; tone completely void of all emotion.

When Donut had offered an awkward smile, The Gamma had offered nothing in return. He merely nodded towards the books on the floor.

“Those are mine.”

“Oh.” Donut said. “I’m so, so sorry, your highness. Your brother said it was alright for me to borrow them. I wasn’t going to take them far, just to a few friends of mine. They’re in my quarters if you’d like to…”

 _Like to what, Donut? If he’d like to come join us for our study session? Sit down and take notes and chat?_ Donut may not know a lot about The Gamma – gosh, no one did- but he knew that whatever suggestion he would’ve proposed from the beginning would not work in the slightest.

The Gamma raised a light eyebrow to his nonsensical suggestions.

“I have a few things marked in them.” The prince said quietly.

 _Ooooh, The Delta would’ve hated that._ Donut could almost hear the eldest of the princes calmly chastise his younger brother on the correct treatment of books.

The Gamma raised his hands then, and beckoned Donut to give him the books. When he received them, he simply turned a few pages and wrote a few things down in a journal. He marked a few pages, stared at a few images and returned them to the confused Seer.

“May I-?” 

“I want them back by sunset.”

“Of course, your highness.” Donut bowed quickly and turned to walk bristly towards his own quarters.

 _Don’t run, don’t run, don’t run_. He walked swiftly around a corner and took a deep breath, his heart racing a little bit. While the Gamma didn’t have the most sinister reputation of the royal princes, he certainly wasn’t one Donut would like to cross, or meet _at all_ for that matter.

A few members of the royal family were no longer permitted on Potentian soil, more specifically the former royal the Omega- now traitor to the land and exiled for all eternity- and the Sigma -whom loudly protested the reign of King Leonard I and who should succeed him and ended up _mysteriously disappearing_ before he was exiled, although dark rumors whispered of a secret execution. The Omega had been… strange, if the rumors were true, with a macabre interest in the occult, necromancy and other illegal activities. He liked to experiment, and he supposedly threw his former wetnurse out a window, only to try and reanimate her once she had hit the ground. _Then_ there was the time he wanted to learn how to affectively keep a person from getting possessed by evil spirits… by letting the Delta get possessed and experiment on him until he could remove the spirits, almost to the cost of his brother’s life.

The Gamma’s new interest in necromancy bothered Donut _a lot_ , hoping he wouldn’t fall into his exiled brother’s footsteps. And, naturally, Donut would rather not be near the albino prince in case he decided to fling _him_ out of a window and experiment on his dead body.

Donut was so preoccupied with scaring himself with stories and rumors of the princes that he walked straight past his own chambers, missing the wide-open door by an inch.

“Donut!”

The Seer yelped and almost dropped his books again. He turned to find the tall, lanky figure of Simmons sticking his head out from behind the door.

“Did you find them?”

Donut shuddered as he walked in and closed the door behind him. “I got them.”

“Are you ok?” Doc looked up from his mountain of tomes scattered across the large oak table placed at the center of Donut’s room.

Donut nodded and tried to shake the fear away.

“I just met the Gamma on my way here.”

“Uh-oh.” Doc said. “Weren’t you in his room?”

“He was fine with it, just as long as I return the books before nightfall.”

Simmons’s nose crinkled. “Odd.”

“And creepy. Is he the _really_ pale one who creeps around the Keep all the time?” Doc chimed in.

Donut nodded.

“I heard-“ Doc started.

“Let’s just focus on the books, ok?” Donut said nervously, fighting the urge to open the door and peak out just so make sure the Gamma wasn’t around the corner, looking at him with dead, violet eyes.

“Not like you to turn down gossip.” Simmons pointed out.

“Yeah, well-“ Donut couldn’t really protest that, he _really_ loved gossiping. “He’s just… scary.”

The pyromancer raised his hands in defeat and grabbed a book to skim through. Doc returned to his mountain of tomes and Donut found himself without anything to do.

“Soooo… what were you looking for again? Just anything on necromancy? You guys aren’t thinking about doing anything _like that_ , right?” He could hear his reprimanding tone, and had to fight to urge to point a stern, judging finger at them.

Simmons huffed in response before he cleared his throat. “Nope. Not at all.”

_Uh-huh._

“The Reds and Blues have a really important quest.” Doc said before he looked up with a radiant smile. “And they actually needed _me_. I feel very included.”

Donut felt his forehead wrinkle. “So they asked you to join them… Are you getting a share in the reward? Why are you helping them?”

Doc opened his mouth to answer, but didn’t seem to know the answer himself. “You know what, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Because Church is getting really good at barking orders.” Simmons concluded, rolling his eyes. “And if we refuse to do as he says, he yells at us until we do it anyway.”

Doc seemed somewhat frozen, as if trying to figure out how many times he’s helped the Guild out for free just because he didn’t want to be yelled at. Donut sat down carefully and patted Doc’s hand gently.

“It’s ok. We’ve all been through this.”

“I think Grif owes me over 400 astari by now.” Doc muttered in shock.

That made Simmons look up. “Has he-“

“I removed the figurines, Simmons.” Doc said with the tiniest hint of anger. “I couldn’t get the… smell off of them.”

Donut looked between the two of them, not understanding a thing. He opened one of the Gamma’s tomes and decided to read the first line before he realized something.

“What are we even looking for?”

Again, Simmons and Doc looked between themselves.

“Oh, come on.” Donut huffed and crossed his arms. “I didn’t get on the Gamma’s bad side for you two to keep me out. I can keep a secret.”

“No, no, you can’t.” Simmons protested. “That’s why everyone knows you like to gossip, man.”

Donut gave a theatrical gasp. “ _Rude_. I only told on you once. Tucker asked about your scar!”

“What scar?” Doc tried to chime in.

“This one.” Simmons gestured to one on his temple before he turned back to Donut with a sigh. “And you know you _can_ just… not tell everyone who asks, right?”

“But it was _such_ a good story, Simmons.” Donut clasped his hands together with a gentle sigh. “You met a _siren_!”

“I met a _Dripfolk_ , the siren...servants, underlings, whatever. There’s a difference. And it threw a seashell at me!”

“So romantic.” Donut sighed wistfully. In his peripheral, he saw Doc nod in agreement.

“It _is_ a good story.”

“NO IT’S NOT- nevermind, fuck this.” Simmons let his head fall on the book he had opted not to read for the last ten minutes.

Donut didn’t really pay attention; he was too busy painting the picture of Simmons coming across a siren on a sea voyage. _I bet it was at sunset, with like a super gentle wind and beautiful tropic waters_.

“Back to the point-“ Donut cleared his throat. “What were we looking for?”

Simmons glared at him through his hair. “Seriously? You just told that story again and you expect us to-“

“ _Perfect Rising.”_ Doc said with a smile as Simmons turned to him with a furrowed brow.

Donut chewed on his lower lip. “I see.”

“Goddamnit, Doc.” Simmons let his head rest in his palm.

“Got it.” Donut smiled happily and gave Doc a thumbs up, whom replied with the same gesture with an equally bright smile. “Let’s research this, bitches!”

It wasn’t as easy as Donut had hoped. He was eager to help, eager to prove that he was _just_ as useful as the members of the Guild in researching that… whatever that was. He was perhaps a bit too eager to prove himself, as he kept skimming the heaviest of tomes only to realize that half of them were written in a tongue he couldn’t even understand.

When he broached the subject with the other two, Simmons only grunted something about the ‘arcane tongue’ and ‘Scanian language’ and grabbed the tome from him to read it himself.

 _Goshdarnit_ , Donut thought to himself and went to chew on his nails before he stopped himself. They had managed to grow out beautifully, he wouldn’t want to ruin them.

In the end, he opted for leaning back, feeling slightly useless, and staring at the items in his room. He let his eyes gently rest on the beautiful drawing of a map he had bought once, the one showcasing the huge nation of Potentia and the Commonwealth it controlled. He blinked as he let his eyes roam across it, blinked again, and couldn’t help but feel like he had seen it before.

 _Of course, you’ve seen a map before, Donut. Duh!_ His inner voice berated him. Yet he felt his body stand up and slowly approach it. He was somewhat used to being in very little control of his body, getting a vision as a Seer every now and then would do that to a person, so when his feet led him to the map he simply let go and let his body try to tell him something.

Simmons and Doc didn’t seem to notice him that much, and only looked up quickly before they returned to their books.

Donut felt his brow furrow as he observed the map. The eerie feeling of recognition still lingered, and he couldn’t help but feel like it was important somehow. _Hey, I’m a Seer, if anyone should trust in their instincts, it’s me._

He blinked, and almost stumbled back as he felt his breath leave his body as if someone had squeezed his lungs. He grasped at the side of the table, and could only hear the reactions of the other two as if he was submerged in water and trying to hear someone above surface yelling at him. Someone grasped at his arms, holding him steady as he tried to force the air into his lungs again, eyes screwed shut.

 _It’s a vision, just let it go, let it happen. You can’t stop them, it’ll only hurt you_. Donut could still hear the echo of CT’s somewhat demeaning but honest guidance.

Donut stopped fighting it, and as his eyes suddenly felt warm, he opened them, ready for a vision.

He saw CT then, crouched over her journal back at Ivory Tower. It was late at night, and she looked around with the nervous face of someone trespassing. She looked at her journal then, at one of the crude geometrical shapes she had drawn herself. She grabbed her journal then and put it up against a map she had pulled out from a scroll holder.

 _Potentia. She tried to draw Potentia_.

CT drew a few lines then in her journal, as if connecting a few dots across the map.

_Those shapes. She drew them in her journal. She’s telling us where to go!_

Donut had no idea if he had accidentally said it out loud, because suddenly CT looked up, almost straight at him. Then she smiled and poked at a certain spot on the map.

“There.” She said, while looking straight at him. “There.”

Donut blinked, and suddenly he was back in his room. On the floor. With Simmons looking at him worriedly while Doc paced around the room, muttering in panic.

“ _On the floor?”_ Donut protested. “Really, guys? Rude.”

He sat up straight and dusted himself off as if it was nothing. And to him; it was. Visions had become such a normal occurrence he treated it as a minor inconvenience. He had almost forgotten most people couldn’t do it.

“I am fine.” He pointed out, but smiled and took Simmons’s hand when it was offered. He barely had time to stand up before Simmons said,

“Did you see anything?”

“That’s kinda what the visions are, y’know?” Donut winked at him and Simmons rolled his eyes. Donut turned back to the map on the wall and pointed to where he saw CT in the vision.

“There.” He said. “That’s what I saw. CT drawing a map, and that’s what she pointed at. I saw the same drawing in her journal. Couldn’t understand it then, she’s not really a _good_ painter, don’t tell her I said that-“

“Donut!”

“Right, sorry.” He looked at the spot she had marked. It was right in the middle of the swamps on the main island of Nochkit. “Here. Near Backwash… that’s a terrible name for a city, by the way.”

Donut turned to Simmons. “You’re from Nochkit, right?”

“Yeah, I didn’t exactly _name the city though_.” Simmons pointed out with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, you’re from Nochkit?” Doc chimed in with polite interest. Then he turned to the map. “That’s where my master lives!”

Donut and Simmons both looked at him with furrowed brows. “Your master lives in the swamps?”

“He’s _very_ reclusive.” Doc said in defense of his master. “But that’s pretty much where he lives, or at least where he used to live. When I was his apprentice I had to go to Backwash for supplies. Couldn’t get any mule or horses through the marshes, they’re like _really_ haunted.”

“That settles it then.” Simmons sighed. “We have to go to freaking _Nochkit_. I really didn’t want to go back there.”

“It’s important to be proud of your heritage, Simmons.” Donut reprimanded with a gentle harrumph.

“Goddamnit, Donut.” Simmons sighed and pinched his nosebridge.

And as his two friends packed up to return to their Guild with the news, Donut returned the books to the Gamma’s chambers with a light spring in his steps, whistling a tune.

 _I helped,_ he thought and gave himself a solid, mental pat on the back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Donut’s powers; the biggest Deux Machina I have.  
> I didn’t have a single clue on how to do the Seer’s vision-thingie until I wrote it all in one go. I guess this is how visions work now :D


	14. Roadtrippin’ with a side of POV switchin’

** Capitol of Potentia, Kingslight **

** Guild Hall of the Reds and Blues **

****

“This horse doesn’t fucking like me.”

“No one likes you. You can just add that one to the list.”

“Fuck off, man, horses are weird. And this one’s ugly as hell.”

“I know. You’re practically twins- ow! Who throws a fucking apple?!”

“I do, bitch! Want another one?”

Wash looked up to the sky, watching the serene grey clouds gently roam across the sky as he tried to ignore Tucker and Church’s bickering. 

“You’re sure about this?” Wash turned to the maroon-clad pyromancer gently placing bedrolls in perfect order inside their new wagon.

“Positive.” Simmons’s head peeked out from behind the flaps. “Donut had a vision, man. That’s the scary thing about Seers. If they get visions, it’s a sign from the gods. We better listen.”

”Nochkit it is then.” Wash said and turned to his new mount.

For all of his many, _many_ flaws, the healer seemed to have a talent for wringing out every last resource available to them for this quest. All of them had new horses; three draft horses with sturdier figure and heavy featherings covering their hooves, while the rest of them seemed nimbler and quicker. A new wagon with a nice, covered section had been gifted to them as well, along with some supplies and food. All of the horses weren’t necessarily easy with beginners however, Church had said when he arrived with their gear.

Wash had some equestrian skills, not too fond of travelling via carriage or litter, and opted for a smoky black stallion named Perseus. Given Tucker’s apparent aversion towards horses he was given the calmest one, a bay gelding with the unfortunate name Francis. 

Said rogue was now trying to calm his somewhat agitated horse. The healer, because _of course Church couldn’t stay away from a fight,_ had already saddled his dapple grey mare with some dexterity, his hand covering his face while recovering from the terrible apple projectile.

“Watch your back, Tucker.” He said. “You’re gonna get one of these back, you know.”

Tucker huffed. “Good luck trying to outsneak me, man.”

He tried to mount his horse, but managed to get one foot stuck in the stirrup and danced around helplessly while cursing and screaming. Which did not calm down his horse. At all.

Every now and then people stopped to watch the scene take place. While the road the Guild Hall was placed on had its fair share of large parties and companies, Wash doubted they caused this much of a ruckus. He felt his cheek redden slightly with shame as a couple of richly clad civilians waltzed passed with a sneering look.

“By the mountains.” He sighed and grabbed the reins of Perseus while leaning over to grasp Francis by his halter. “Relax, Tucker. You’re making it worse.”

“It’s not my fault, this fucker is really skittish!” Tucker said, again way too loud. Francis’s ears swiveled nervously and he huffed and swung his head around.

“Tucker, seriously.” Wash said quietly, trying his best to talk calmly as he stroked the muzzle of Tucker’s horse. “If you don’t feel like you can handle riding-“

“I’ll deal with it.” Tucker sneered back.

 _It wasn’t a challenge_. “Understood.”

He had to give it to him, it only took two more tries before Tucker was on his horse. His shoulders were hunched and he seemed quite nervous, but he didn’t hop down.

Wash mounted his own, and while Perseus seemed somewhat agitated, he had dealt with his fair share of hothead horses before.

_Just keep it away from Church’s mare…or Church in general._

“Ready to go?” Grif hollered from his position on the wagon.

They all issued their versions of ‘ayes’ and then they were off. Ready to start a journey that would last two months at least.

The whole thing had Wash’s stomach churn. Two months, one on horseback getting to Tempest and one on a cramped passenger ship heading for one of the most haunted places in the southern hemisphere. Not to mention wherever their journey would take them next.

_Great. Fantastic. I miss the Freelancers already. Why did I agree to this? Why did York think this was a good idea?_

He sighed, and for what felt like the hundredth time that day, he reminded himself of why he was still there.

_For Connie. I owe her that much._

It took them some time to maneuver out of the grand city, and with the large wagon and colorful company, they surely didn’t pass through unnoticed. Some people issued ‘well wishes’ and praises, perhaps recognizing the Guild from another mission. Or perhaps they looked more regal than what Wash felt. But by the time they had passed the western gate and headed out on the open road, Wash was quite happy he no longer felt the need to sit up straight with a solemn and serious face, hoping he looked like he had at least a modicum of respect amongst his loud and abrasive companions.

The sun seemed insistent on soaking them in sweat, and it didn’t take them many hours of the early morning sun before Wash felt his head almost swim in heat. He spurred his horse on, coming up to Church and Sarge in the front, the two de facto leaders locked in silence.

“I say we take a short rest soon.” He insisted. “Just to get out of the worst heat. The sun will be at its highest soon.”

“Agreed, son.” Sarge said. He had at least the sense to not be dressed in his absurd, bloodred armor under the circumstances.

They all had opted for lighter riding gear, and while they weren’t as ridiculously color coordinated as they had been the day before, they all seemed to have at least on item of said color on them. Whether it was arm wraps, jewelry, breeches or capes, a splash of color was visible on every member of the Guild. Wash supposed he couldn’t blame them, since he wore his grey travel cloak and yellow surcoat with a discreet Washington lynx sewn on the breast.

“There’s a lake not too far away from here, near Grasscreak.” Church added. “We’ll stop there.”

Wash nodded and tugged on the reins to turn Perseus away from the two in the front and back to the others. It wasn’t the easiest since his stallion seemed to have caught the scent of Selene, Church’s mare, but with a somewhat brutal tug he could steer him away.

He told the others of the news, which they all seemed content with. While Caboose, Simmons, Doc and Grif seemed _somewhat_ ready for a break, Tucker looked very much done with his time in a saddle. When they eventually stopped at a nearby lake, hidden away from the Emporó road by grassy dunes and hills, Tucker jumped off his horse without hitching it, whistled for Sheila and took off, every bone in his body seemingly cracking and aching.

Wash couldn’t blame him really, and grabbed Francis’s reins without much thought, making sure to hitch him securely, before stripping down to his breeches and head towards the lake.

The water felt absolutely divine. He could see the sun reflecting in the water shatter and merge with every ripple he made as he further submerged himself into the lake. The mud between his toes would’ve usually had him grimace and find better footing on the grassy banks, but now he deemed it a necessary evil.

He dipped his head in and rubbed the dirt and sweat off of his scalp, raked his whole body with his fingernails to rid himself of the soil, then picked meticulously at them to make them somewhat representable. With a quick glance around himself, more out of habit than anything else, he bit at them to shorten the length, biting into the sweat and mud trapped under them.

 _If my mother saw me now_.

He submerged once more, trying to get shake off the reminder of how many times he would’ve let down his family with his poor manners by now. The water wasn’t particularly clear, and although he could somewhat make out his legs and feet, the further he went out the less he could observe.

Then something swam past him so fast he could feel the pressure of the waves around him. Wash’s heart beat faster, his legs curling up and he looked frantically around himself to find the enemy. Then Grif’s head emerged from the water, grinning.

“You’re gonna scrape your feet on something if you’re not careful.”

“I’ll manage.” Wash muttered; his mood somewhat spoiled.

Grif’s rolled his dark green eyes, ( _weren’t those blue once?_ Wash thought) and took off again, smoothly disappearing into the murky, dark mass of the lake without as much as a ripple.

 _Islanders truly are masters of the waters_. He might not have been the perfect pupil, but he knew enough of the Egeniella isles northeast of Potentia to know that the salt of the sea seemed to run in the blood of its citizens. He opted for returning to the grass banks slowly but surely, leaving the islander to stay further out.

Simmons had taken it upon himself to wash some of his clothes, and Wash observed both Sarge, Tucker and Church trying to sneak their dirty attires into his washing pile as well. The pyromancer didn’t seem to notice, and only hummed something tunelessly as he beat the dirt out of the clothes with a laundry bat before submerging them in the water. Wash could practically see the filth create a rainbow film on the surface, and he hurried to get himself out of the lake and dry himself.

While the islander seemed busy popping in and out of the water like a seal, the others seemed somewhat eager to set up camp for a few hours and rest. After Sarge snuck his clothes into his subordinate’s pile, he opted for cleaning and checking their wagon, popping in and out of it while counting on his fingers. Caboose stood just outside of the wagon, and happily grabbed whatever heavy objects Sarge chucked out for their rest. And somewhere, lost in the wilderness, Doc was picking flowers and herbs.

Church took it upon himself to groom the horses and rid them of mud and pebbles with an iron hoof pick. It seemed a dirty job, and Wash was somewhat surprised at the mage’s dexterity at it.

“You’ve done a number of times before, I take it.” He said as he approached Francis, the bay gelding Tucker had difficulty befriending.

“Yup.” Church huffed and wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve. For the occasion, he had stripped down to brown breeches and a white linen undershirt that looked suspiciously familiar-

“Isn’t that from Dr. Grey’s laboratory?”

Church’s shoulders tensed up for a split second before he rolled them in an effort to seem nonchalant. He carried on picking at Francis’s hooves.

“She saved your life and you repay that debt by stealing from her?” Wash said in the most composed voice he could muster.

“I forgot I had it on, alright? Can you blame a guy forgetting a _shirt_ after he just woke up from near death?” Church stood up straight, grimaced slightly as his hand covered his abdomen and dusted himself off. He blew a black lock away from his face and cocked his head, looking straight at Wash without blinking once. “You’re always like this, huh? Wanna just interrogate me and get it over with? I might be an _evil spy from our enemy lands_!”

Wash sighed and rubbed some waterdrops away from his head. “I was going to ask if you needed any assistance, actually.”

“With an attitude like that, how can I say no?” Church bit back and shouldered past him to grab a hard-bristled brush, dipped it in the water and walked past him to brush Francis’s coat. And that was that for the conversation from the mage’s part.

 _You are a fantastic conversationalist,_ South’s mocking voice told Wash. _It’s a wonder they haven’t drowned you in the nearest lake._

He looked elsewhere for something to do, in a safe distance from said lake, but barely had the time to turn around before he heard Church’s voice from behind the neck of his own dapple-grey mare;

“Just run to Tucker. You’re _his_ recruit!”

For once, Wash saw the need for him to keep his mouth shut, if anything to keep the peace in the Guild. It was embarrassingly easy to be on edge with the Blues’s so-called _de facto leader_ at all times. He rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath as he looked for the dark-skinned rogue.

He found the eagle before he found the rogue. As the large bird of prey circled the lake, he heard the noise of a whistle and followed it. Tucker stood on a small grass dune not too far from the lake, swinging a small bag of meat as he whistled for Sheila to come. The bird eventually settled on his gloved hand, the one Grif usually wore, and he turned as Wash neared him.

“’Sup?” He said with a smile.

“Need any help?” Wash nodded towards the eagle eyeing him, not quite certain if he was friend or prey.

“Gotta give it to you, you’re actually pretty calm around her. Most people just… y’know, avoid the fuck out of her- no offense, Sheila!” The rogue added the last sentence quickly as the bird turned to him with an odd bird-like harrumph.

“My family is quite used to animals of all kind.” Wash said. “History says we were once able to tame all wildlife, but those skills were lost long ago. We still tame lynxes back home but-“

“ _IIIIIIII’m_ sorry, what?” Tucker turned to him with a shocked look. Sheila harrumphed once more and took off, leaving the two of them alone.

Wash chuckled before he stopped himself and rubbed his mouth with his hand. “Yes, I have two of them at Avalanche. They’re not entirely domestic, one can’t _truly_ tame them, but they follow our commands, go on our hunts and would, supposedly, protect us in battle and the like.”

For the first time in the short time they had known each other, the rogue looked at him with what Wash could only assume was a modicum of respect and awe.

“Sonofabitch.” Tucker laughed. “Seriously?”

“Aye. My family has always been… somewhat strange like that. The other Houses didn’t like our animals back then, and they _still_ don’t like them.”

“Dude, if we ever get close to Avalanche, we are so getting those fucking cats.”

Wash raised an eyebrow with a small smile. “Do you truly think Lopez will approve?”

Tucker grimaced. “Shit. Didn’t think of Sarge’s stupid mutt- oh shit, is Sheila nearby? Can she hear me?”

“Fear not, the eagle is elsewhere.” Wash’s brow furrowed. “And I must add that I don’t think she’d understand human speech.”

“Nu-uh, she knows. Trust me.” As Wash’s brow furrowed further, the rogue laughed. “What? The guy with giant, predator cats as pets thinks _that’_ s too far-fetched?”

“Point taken.” Wash said. “So, you don’t need my help with anything?”

“With standing on a hill avoiding work? Doesn’t sound like you, does it?” Tucker rolled on the balls of his feet, clicking his tongue. “Just let me have a few moments of peace before Church or Caboose… Or Sarge fucks it up.”

Wash felt his left eye twitch a little bit. But before he could protest, _a proper soldier should always look to aid his fellow fighters_ , Tucker grabbed his sleeve.

“Relax.” Said the dark-skinned rogue. Or at least, Wash think he said it, he was far too busy staring at the other man’s hand, not quite certain he approved of the touch or not.

Tucker tugged at his sleeve, and Wash looked up to meet his eyes.

“Just stand still for one second in your life and breathe, alright? You’re gonna get grey hairs before you reach your thirties. Unless you’re gonna shave your head again. Is that why shaved your head? Already going grey?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Wash shrugged the hand away. He let his own hand pass through the short, blonde hairs growing fast on his head. “I didn’t want it in the way during training. That’s all there is.”

It was perhaps not entirely true, but Wash wasn’t the type of man to engage with such personal topics. His father had insisted on it as a punishment at first, a consequence of Wash talking back to him and arguing certain topics. It had now become a reminder for Wash to continue to be the proper man he had brought up to be, to stand tall and proud as a guard of the royal family; as a symbol of honor and conduct for the Washingtons. He disliked the idea of it growing long, as if his very body seemed to distance itself from his former Freelancer status.

“Suuuuure.” Tucker had, evidently, discovered the lie. To his credit, he didn’t press further and gave Wash a somewhat teasing smile, but it wasn’t cruel. Wash just let it pass with a sigh and a shake of his head.

“CABOOSE, GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WATER!”

Wash jumped at the sudden scream, but Tucker only let out a whine.

“One minute is all I ask, mother of the sky.” The rogue looked up to the sky with a defeated sigh. “Just _one fucking minute_.”

Wash took a few steps closer to the edge of the dune, observing the occurrence down by the lake. The giant marauder had either completely ignored the mage’s order, not very likely though, or had not heard it at all. He had happily removed all of his armor and wore only his undershirt and breeches, wading through the water with delighted laughter.

“You can’t swim, you idiot!” Church had cupped his hands around his mouth to further increase the sound. “Get out!”

“Should we assist?” Wash turned back to Tucker, who just rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.

“Nope.” Tucker said, and Wash could’ve sworn he heard Sarge say the same thing down by the lake. It didn’t carry any hostility really, but the former Freelancer couldn’t help but bristle.

“Why?”

Tucker only nodded towards the scene again. He saw the Reds, the ones on land at least, mind their own business as if nothing happened while Church spit curses as he removed his shoes to wade into the water after him.

“Idiots, both of them.” The rogue rolled his eyes. “Caboose is bad enough, but I think Church wins the reward for shittiest caretaker in history.”

Wash only hummed an agreement as he watched the giant marauder wade further into the water, a slight sense of unease taking over. But Church seemed to use his brain, at last, and stood still and snapped his fingers. Within a few seconds, a ring of ice surrounded the marauder, whom happily shrieked (‘ _FLOATY RING’_ ) and spun around on it, the threat of drowning never once on his mind.

Wash could almost hear the string of curses the mage no doubt released from his mouth as he stalked back on land, his breeches dripping wet.

“See?” Tucker said. “We should just keep him on a leash.”

“If you don’t mind me asking-” Wash said awkwardly as he let his eyes fall from Caboose playing in the lake, “How exactly did you come by him?”

“Which one? The stupid mean one or the stupid stupid one?”

Wash let out a short laugh before he collected himself. “Both, I suppose.”

Tucker nodded towards his teammates. “Church was with Flowers before I got here. Followed him around like a puppy. Then, after they both went to fight in the war, Church was the only one who came back to the Guild, Caboose in tow. So, he got himself a puppy too, I suppose.”

“You sound jealous.” He didn’t mean it, not really, but the glower he got from the rogue made Wash’s mouth close shut quick enough.

_I can’t say anything right, can I?_

“It’s not like that, dumbass.” Tucker just shook his head. “But it’s like bringing a kid into war. I have no idea what the fuck Church did to make Caboose so fucking attached, but he shouldn’t be here. Better we just dump him somewhere where they can take care of him and carry on our business. But _no_ , I guess Church is too fond of his bodyguard.”

He caught himself, and bit his lip. Then he rolled his shoulders and sighed. “Forget it. You didn’t hear that from me, alright?”

“Certainly.” Wash nodded.

The silence became awkward, and before long Tucker turned around and walked back to camp, leaving Wash with his thoughts.

Seems he wasn’t the only one quietly in a feud with the healer.

\------------

Tucker didn’t like horses. His gelding ( _the calmest one they have at the stables, my fucking ass,_ he thought to himself) continued to whinny, snort and shake his head as if to get rid of the bridle. He bucked on occasion, forcing Tucker to grip the bridle tighter and rein the animal in, effectively stopping it from moving. _That_ was annoying enough. What was even more annoying was that he was placed in the back of the company, right in front of the wagon led by a very discontent Grif who had to rein his own two white, giant horse-monsters in to avoid colliding them into the butt of Tucker’s horse.

“By the gods, you idiot.” Grif gritted and reined the wagon to a stop for what could probably be the 47th time. “Just hop in here instead, you don’t know how to ride.”

“Shut up, Grif. I know how to-“ Again the gelding bucked and he bit into his tongue. The rogue growled at the animal.

No, no, scratch that. Tucker despised horses.

As if it wasn’t annoying enough to be stuck with an incompetent horse (the stablehand mentioned something about a _palfrey_ but he had genuinely no idea nor interest in what that was.), he could see Wash mastering it with ease. He had been positioned at the front of the company, where Church and Sarge trotted along like they’d been riding all of their lives. He was in a semi-light discussion with said two at the front, and whenever the horse made the tiniest of move he didn’t approve of he just tugged at it gently, the animal listening to his slightest flick of his wrist.

“See that, dipshit?” Tucker muttered into the ears of his current greatest enemy. “ _That’s_ how you’re supposed to behave.”

Dipshit-the-aptly-named gelding didn’t seem to agree to the rogue’s very diplomatic suggestion, and just snorted at him, shaking his head again.

“Why the fuck are you doing that?”

“Dude, relax.” Grif groaned in the back. He leaned his head into the wooden panel of his seat, a pipe placed between his lips. “It’s a lot of insects here, he’s just flicking them away.”

Tucker didn’t bother responding and he just bit his cheek and spurred Dipshit on. The horse seemed to agree to get away from the sweaty hunter and he settled for a few seconds of trotting.

For those seconds, Tucker was in immense pain.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow.” He said every time the saddle came to painfully hit him in the crotch. He stared down at Dipshit. “You sadistic little – _ow_.”

Grif snorted a laugh, hiding it poorly in his sleeve.

“Shut up.” Tucker growled.

The journey went on like that for hours upon hours, the heavy canopies of the Oakpalace woods-region slowly but surely started to leave way for the more open fields. After that came the more mountainous regions. Those in turn would slowly but surely would be turning into the colder strait of the region of Heather’s Rest. As they reached the more open fields, the only thing Tucker felt like doing – besides verbally abusing Dipshit while the animal tried to physically abuse him back – was staring at the shadows as they grew longer.

He was in one of those staring competitions with Dipshit’s shadow when another shadow joined his vision. He looked up and saw Church trotting down from the front of the company.

“What now?” Tucker said, sounding way more exhausted than he cared to admit.

The healer’s eyebrows rose up and a small sadistic grin graced his face.

“Not much for riding, are you?”

“Dude, don’t make me shove a knife to your throat.”

“Yeah, you’d have to be able to catch me first,” He said and circled the rogue. “Seriously though, sun’s hitting us low now, and we’re not as far as we want to be. We need to get to the first Emporó road mountain outpost before nightfall-“

“Could it be because Tucker keeps reining in his horse all the time?” Grif suggested.

“One more word out of you, Islander, I swear.” It would’ve been more threatening if Tucker had been able to turn around to stare the hunter in the eyes, but any movement back and Dipshit saw it as the perfect time to try and buck him off. The rogue needed tact and strategy on his side to take on Dipshit the infamous _buck-off._

“-So we need to pick up the pace.” Church continued on like he hadn’t been interrupted at all. “Grif, you think the wagon can hold?”

“For what? Trotting? Galloping full speed? You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific. This thing is _old_.” He tapped the seat to emphasize his point.

“Yeah well, the King spares no expense when it comes to his generosity.” Church’s muttered sarcastically. Then he raised his voice. “Eh, they’re gaited horses, so we can just go with an amble. We’re all getting pretty damn tired of sitting in saddles.”

“Hear, hear.” Tucker yawned. “Wait, what’s an _amble_?”

“Just follow the grown-ups.” Church smiled and spurred his horse on, sweeping past the others to the front of the company. Tucker opened his mouth to issue some choice words, but the mage was _really_ freaking fast on a horse.

The pace picked up quick enough, and once the horses in front had caught on the gaited pace, the rest followed. The wagon creaked protests every now and then but it was otherwise a fairly smooth ride. Even Dipshit behaved moderately, which was saying something.

“Why couldn’t we go at this pace the _whole_ freaking time?” The wagon behind him creaked to issue the response.

As twilight hit the Reds and Blues it bathed the environment in a pleasant warm light that made the whole being-on-the-road-thing-on-horseback a little bit better. Not marginally. But it was something. Tucker had been told on occasion he’s good at seeing the positive side of things. 

That didn’t last long.


	15. Caboose forgets a tent

** Emporó road, a couple of miles east of Kingslight **

“I am not sharing my tent.”

“Yes, you are. Why the hell did we even get you a two-man sized tent if you're always sleeping alone?"

"Church, listen; first of all, I like my space. Second of all, everyone here are assholes, morons, flea-bitten animals or worst of all; _you_. We Tuckers don’t share our tents.”

“I am not even remotely surprised that you refer to yourself as your own species.”

“That’s racist.”

Wash opened his mouth to issue a response, but one glare from Church made him sigh and rub his head in frustration.

Despite their best efforts in the last hours of their trek, they had yet to reach the outpost that they were hoping for. When it was declared that it was dark to continue, they had settled to doubling back a few miles to a nearby grove. The heavy oak woods could protect them from rain, should it be necessary, and Wash had to admit that it calmed his nerves a bit to be away from the far too open spaces that the Heather’s Rest region was famous for. It was worth the extra 30 minutes of careful trekking with hooded lanterns and Simmons' flames dotting their way.

The wagon gave the Guild some privacy from the road not too far away from their camping place. The Reds were seamlessly settling into their routines, Grif feeding the horses and unhitching them from the wagon as Simmons checked and chucked the needed supplies out of the wagon for the night. Sarge saddled the fishing duty from Grif, after said man moaned and whined about it for a solid fifteen minutes. Apparently, the ten-minute trek to a nearby stream was too exhausting a task for him.

And now, as they were preparing to settle in for the night, their evening contained a fair share of issues. Namely who was going to sleep in which tent. As it turned out, Caboose had managed to forget his, which led to Wash immediately offering the large, sad man his own. Most of the sleeping arrangements were already settled, with Grif and Simmons sharing their two-man sized tent, and Church borrowing Tex’s small, old tent. Doc’s tent was already overrun by a variety of plants and Sarge declared he would rough it under a tree with Lopez as his grumpy but loyal source of warmth. And apparently, Tucker had a larger tent, but he used to sleep in it solo. Which left Tucker and Wash in Tucker's tent.

Sadly, the rogue wasn't up for it. And everyone in the Guild was made acutely aware of it.

"I'm not happy about it either, Tucker." Wash muttered and crossed his arms. "But the outpost is too far away, and it looks like it's going to be a rainy night."

"Church, can't you do something?" Tucker turned to Church, who glared at his own terribly made tent as if it would mend itself together. When he heard his name, he turned, the mage's brows furrowed.

"I'm taking Tex's old tent, man. At least I’m trying to, but this fucker is impossible to put together. You're on your own."

"But-"

"For the love of the gods, man; it's just one night!"

"One night?! It's gonna take weeks to get to Tempest."

"We'll be going through a few inns and cities on the way up." Wash decided to cut in. He gave the rogue a small glare. "We'll find a new tent for Caboose since it bothers you _so much_ that we have to share."

"Whatever." Tucker sighed and raised his arms in defeat. "I'll look for firewood."

"Do you need me for anything?" Wash turned to Church.

He pondered it for a second. "We have to do some mage shit right about now, but I rather wait. We need a fire- Caboose!"

Wash turned around to see the marauder emerging from the woods carrying two tree trunks as if they were nothing but two bedrolls. Caboose smiled and put the trunks down near where they've prepared for a fire.

Wash's mouth fell open. _How in the hell?_

"I made benches, Church. Look!" To emphasize his point, Caboose sat down on one of the trunks, turning to the two of them. Church groaned and put his head in his hands, before stalking off into the night.

"How are you so strong?" Wash asked, flabbergasted. He leaned down and touched the trunk.

Caboose smiled again, a full toothed grin at this point. "I have always been strong. I used to carry all the flour bags for Mamma when I was small."

"I see." Wash couldn't help but smile a little bit. He patted the marauder on his shoulder, and he beamed at the attention. "Very nice benches."

"Thank you, Mr. Washingtub."

A guffaw followed by a cough erupted from the forest where Grif and Simmons emerged with firewood and twigs. Grif was holding his pipe in one hand while coughing and spitting, losing his grip on his twigs. Simmons rolled his eyes at the hunter and continued on without him.

"That's probably the best one yet, Caboose." Grif spat and took a deep breath, only to laugh again. When he decided Wash had been properly laughed at, he put the pipe back into his mouth and gathered his twigs and sticks again.

"I've gotten _Simon_ more times than I can count. And Grif is usually _Gruf_ etc." Simmons added.

“Doctor Doc here.” Doc said and raised a hand, his eyes never leaving an interesting looking plant he had discovered on the way.

"North and South from the Dakota family where called East and West until South almost stabbed him in the chest with a kitchen fork." Grif pointed out as he dumped his twigs in the pile.

"Mean lady." Caboose muttered and shivered.

Wash chuckled at that. "Yes, she's like that I suppose. We never really got along-"

"Dooooo I smell Devil's snare?"

Wash yelped and jumped away from the noise a mere meter away. Tucker ignored the former Freelancer completely, eyes fully focused on Grif's pipe. Wash could practically feel Doc’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

"Knock yourself out, man." Grif patted the ground next to him, ignoring Doc’s ‘ _It’s not for recreational use, Dexter!’_. "You got any wood- No, wait-"

"Bow chica bow wow!" Tucker exclaimed happily, pointing at the Hunter triumphantly. "Plenty of wood here."

"Gross." Simmons and Grif said in unison as Tucker dumped his own collection of firewood near the pile.

 _I guess I'm not needed_ , Wash's brow furrowed. He looked down at the trunk again, and opted for sitting next to Caboose. Grif and Tucker settled for smoking their Devil's snare as Simmons moved the twigs and firelogs together.

When the mage deemed it good enough, he collected a few twigs and broke them into small pieces. Then he cupped them in his hand, whispered something and then blew at the twigs, and they sparked aflame as if they had been lit by a torch. The embers caught a few more twigs in the pile, and before long, the crackling and creaking of a fire spread warmth in Wash's chest.

"There we go." Simmons said and brushed the remainder of the twigs off of his hands. "I should probably go cleanse."

"Need a bite to eat first?" Grif offered.

Simmons pondered if for a second. “Probably for the best, honestly. Where's Church?"

Wash pointed in the direction where he last saw him. "Don't know where he went though."

"I'll find him. _Here, grumpy mage, come here_." Simmons cooed into the darkness as if calling a dog, clapping on his knees and whistling.

Wash couldn't help but laugh at that, before hiding it with a cough. "Sorry."

"Oh gods, he _can_ laugh." Tucker looked back at him from his position near the fire. "And here I thought you were dead on the inside."

Wash's laughter died out quickly after that, and he settled with tucking his cloak closer to him and watching the flames.

Silence hit the present Guild members for a while, Wash’s brow twitching. Caboose looked around, seemingly uncomfortable, while Grif and Simmons had settled comfortably near each other, sharing a wineskin. Tucker laid sprawled out on the ground, sighing contently as he watched the night sky. Every now and then a bird tweeted, and the rogue mimicked it back casually. Wash found himself relax a tad bit more, his fingers casually touching the journal. He pondered, then decided against it, and placed his hands on his knees.

Something shifted in the woods, and they all turned towards it.

“It’s just Sarge.” Grif said calmly, although Wash couldn’t see far enough into the dark woods to confirm it.

Within a few seconds though, Sarge emerged with a cluster of fish carried across his shoulder. Wash stood up to help him, and the silence that fell over the Guild now was filled with the slicing of knives and the removal of scales and flesh.

As if sniffing out the coming feast, Church waltzed out from the woods to plop down unceremoniously on a log.

“Finally.” Simmons rolled his eyes. “Did you cleanse without me?”

“In the woods by myself?” Church raised an eyebrow. “I’m dead asleep ten minutes after the cleansing, so no; I wasn’t.”

Wash’s brow furrowed, his eyes darting back and forth between the two mages. He turned to Tucker.

“Can someone explain-“

“Mages get tired after cleansing. We’re not used to _not_ being filled with energy-“

“Phrasing.” Grif muttered, cutting off Simmons’s lecture.

“-so we’re just… I don’t know… drained? It’s difficult to explain, but it’s really tiring.”

“It’s boring too, not being able to use magic.” Church sighed wistfully. “I don’t know how _you simple mortals_ do without it.”

Tucker tossed a twig at the healer in response. “Cool it with the arrogance, man. We’re doing just _fine_. Go cleanse!”

“I second that, actually.” Simmons agreed.

“Let a man _eat,_ will you?” Church sighed. “How’s that fish turning up- Sarge, what the hell?!”

Sarge’s smile was devilish as he tossed a piece of cooked fish in Church’s face. “Eat up, little mage. Dinner is served.”

 _I suppose the first night could be worse_ , Washington thought as he chewed on a piece of meat. _Calm before the storm, calm before the storm_.

************

When Wash was a child, bright lights and colors were a rare thing. You’d think, living so long south where the cold crept up the spine come autumn, that the light phenomenon dancing across the sky would occur every now and then. It didn’t. Sarah claimed to have woken to it once, the sky crackling like flames in the fire, tongues of bright green and red and yellow dancing across the night sky like waves. Wash had scrunched his nose and rolled his eyes.

Auroras never danced across the sky in Avalanche, and Wash never had the opportunity to see it. Even fireworks were a rare thing back home, the castle forever a dull grey, be it summer, winter, spring or autumn.

But, as Wash sat cross-legged paying less and less attention to sharpening his sword, on this particular night he was able to see one hell of a lightshow.

“What are they doing?” He whispered to Tucker.

The rogue laid with his head on one of the logs of wood seated around the fire. His eyebrows knitted together before he opened his eyes drowsily.

“Huh?” He yawned.

Wash nodded towards the end of the camp. Both Simmons and Church sat leaned against trees, far away from each other. They both sat in hand drawn circles, the lines bathing in light. Blue light shot from Church’s presumably magic circle, whilst Simmons’s shone red, the ribbons of light dancing in the night sky.

Both of them sat straight up, cross-legged with their heads slightly bent forward.

If Wash didn’t know better, he’d say they were meditating. But as little as he knew about the Reds and Blues, he’d learn that if Church ever did something even remotely calming; he was most likely possessed.

“That’s the weird cleanse shit.” Tucker muttered, rolling the log a bit closer to the fire. “Watch Church ten minutes after this stuff, he’ll be dead asleep. I call dibs on ‘not carrying him into his tent’.”

“…I suppose I second that. But it’s kind of beautiful.” Wash couldn’t help but wonder if the light their cleansing circles released looked anything like the auroras down south.

Tucker’s nose scrunched up.

“Lame.”

“Why are you always-“ Wash sighed, only to find that Tucker had turned his back to him and laid down to rest near the fire like a housecat.

_I’m not carrying you to a tent either, by the way._

Whatever the cleansing entailed; it didn’t take too long. The dancing lights disappeared after a couple of minutes, to Wash’s inner child’s chagrin, and both Church and Simmons stood up, stretching.

“Hey, Church!” Tucker called. “Can you heal this- oh, wait.”

Church glared at the rogue, the latter smirking at him.

“I can still whack you with my staff.” Church threatened, before he shook his head with a yawn.

Tucker snickered and sat up, still leaning against one of the logs. His shoulders poked Wash’s leg, whom discreetly tried to get away.

“So, how far are w-“ Wash tried to say before he was interrupted by Church waving his hand dismissively.

“No questions until I get some arcane energy back. I’m going to bed.”

Wash turned back to observe the healer’s _very_ poorly made tent. “That thing won’t survive the night if we get rain. Let me-“

“Nope.”

“I only meant-“

“A little rain isn’t gonna kill me.” The healer headed towards his tent. Then he stopped with a barely audible sigh. “Thanks though.”

Wash nodded. “Sure thing.”

“Aaw, best friends.” Tucker said sarcastically and rolled his eyes while Caboose looked up at them from his position near the fire, reacting to the words ‘best friend’ like a dog to a whistle.

Slowly but surely more people headed to their respective sleeping arrangements. Wash couldn’t help but cast a confused look in the direction of Sarge’s shelter he had put together alarmingly quickly with twigs and grass. Lopez laid next to it, yawning as he put his head on his paws. Sheila rested there as well, her wings flashing on a branch near her canine companion.

“I got first watch.” Grif declared, raising his pipe in the air.

“Second.” Tucker said.

“Dibs on last.” Doc added.

Caboose looked between them before he turned to Wash, whispering,

“I don’t know any numbers.”

“I can hear you, dumbass.” Tucker said. “When you whisper to a person, make sure to not have another person between, ok? Kinda defeats the purpose.”

“I wasn’t whispering.” Caboose said. “Stupid Tucker.”

Tucker rolled his eyes and moved his hands back to use the logs as leverage to get himself up. Only he didn’t see where to put his hands and ended up grasping Wash’s thigh.

“Shit, sorry.” Tucker said.

“Quite alright.” Wash responded curtly, wincing slightly. He had a very strong grip.

Tucker turned around to head to his… well, _their_ tent, and seemed to try to do it as discreetly as possible.

“Heading to bed?” Grif said with a sardonic smile as Tucker’s shoulders hunched up.

“No…”

“Don’t forget you’re not sleeping next to a chick this time, alright?”

“Shut up.”

“No groping your tent buddy.”

“Pardon?” Wash looked up with his eyebrows furrowed in concern. Tucker rolled his eyes once more and slapped his shoulder lightly.

“Ey, how tall are you?”

“Of…” Wash looked around to the others for support, slightly confused. His eyes returned back to the rogue. “-Average height, I believe?”

Wrong thing to say apparently, as Tucker’s eyes narrowed. Wash had no idea what he had said that offended him so, but before he could ask, Simmons cut in with an exasperated sigh;

“Just admit it, you’re short.”

“JuSt aDMit iT, you’RE sHoRT.” Tucker mocked back. “It’s not my fault you Potentians are tall as fuck!”

“We’ve got like… four Potentians here. Like, it’s just Church, Sarge, Doc and Wash.” Grif seemed almost offended by the notion of being from the mainland. “I’m from Egeniella.”

“We know!” Simmons yawned at the same time as Tucker uttered a “Nobody cares!”

“Perhaps we should decrease the volume.” Wash cut in. “I believe we have a few sleeping companions?”

“They’ll live.” Tucker said and turned around once more to go to sleep. “Just don’t take up the whole freaking tent, alright, fencer?”

_Again, with that nickname._

Wash didn’t answer him and instead settled for resting his fingers on Connie’s journal.

“Hitting the Ghostlands, tomorrow.” Grif said, staring up into the sky. He turned his head to look at Wash. "Ever crossed?"

"Naturally." Wash responded, putting his hands on his lap instead. "I have to, in order to get from Whitemount the Oakwood Palace region."

"Riiight, forgot you were from there." Grif said dismissively with a yawn.

"I'm only part of the Lord House that guards Whitemount." Washington added with an acidic tone.

"Yeah, yeah, nobility and all that." He waved away whatever argument Wash could possibly have. "Still, ain't gonna be fun. This country is weird."

Wash sighed. "I suppose I can agree on that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very much a sucker for shorter chapters with focus on bonding between characters, can you tell??


	16. His Majesty

** Capitol of Potentia, Kingslight **

** Meteor Fortress **

The Keep was rarely empty, to be fair. Despite being of the more gargantuan stature, people still seemed to be able to fill it. Cooks, maids, men-at-arms, retainers and of course, the royal family themselves.

But, as Donut got accidentally shoulder-checked for the fourth time in ten minutes as he tried to get back to his quarters in the early afternoon; he started to wonder if it was perhaps a special occasion. Usually people showed him almost an, to him at least, oddly excessive form of politeness and respect, with bows and titles. He didn't mind anonymity every now and then, but the shoulder-checking was perhaps a bit too much.

He opted for sticking to a wall and more or less crab walking through the busy crowd of people, some running to complete their errands, some briskly walking whilst discussing things in hushed tones. He thought he saw the distinct tall form of Lord Julien of Eboracum, but that was the extent of the people he recognized. Every now and then a flash of white would pass his eyes and he felt himself tense up, then berate himself quietly for being nervous, only to tense up again when it happened once more.

It was a few days after he had helped Simmons and Doc out, and more specifically, after he had borrowed the Gamma's personal stash of books on necromancy. He hadn't even done anything wrong, but he couldn't shake the feeling that the prince had put Donut on a list of 'people I might have Wyoming quietly murder because they mildly annoyed me'.

Whenever he thought he saw a flash of white that could be interpreted as the Gamma's hair or Wyoming's oddly colored Freelancer uniform, he found himself shrinking a little bit.

So, when a hand grabbed his shoulder and swung him around, he was quite certain he was going to get a knife through the belly, and let out a shrill shriek.

"Fuckin' hell, your screams freaking echo around this place, you know that, right?!"

The person in front of him was not his personal grim reaper come to carry him to the next world, but a tall, lanky teenager with a mop of curly, black hair and green eyes. Said eyes were screwed shut in mock-pain as he shook his head as if trying to rid his ears of the ringing. He wore finer riding leathers and a light blue travel cloak over it, adorned with jewelry and embroidered details.

"The Iota!" Donut said and quickly bowed.

"Yeah, yeah, it's me, don't cream your pants." The Iota, Prince Irving, said sardonically with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The steady stream of people seemed to have lessened now, and those who passed gave them a wide berth, with a quick bow and words of _'my prince'_ and _'Seer Franklin'._

Donut placed a hand over his heart, hearing it beat way too fast still. He took a deep breath.

"Can I assist you, my Prince?"

"Nah." The Iota shook his shoulders and ran his fingers through his unruly mop of curls. "Finally got home, a few days later than planned. Saw you in the crowd, figured I'd stop by and say hi."

 _So, His Majesty has returned from his journeys, that explains all the people._ Donut found himself smiling. Although the Prince had a mouth on him, it was quite refreshing to speak to a royal acting so... casual around everyone, be it peasant or noble. After being terrified of his older brother for a couple of days, the Iota was a breath of fresh air.

His brow furrowed. "Wait, got home? Did the King take you with him on his journey?"

"You didn't notice? I was gone for three fucking weeks." The Iota laughed. "Thanks, I feel so loved right now. Now I'm totally gonna keep your present I bought for you in Bloodgulch."

Donut mock-gasped in shock. "Heavens no, not the present!"

The Iota shook his head and tsk-ed. "I thought you were different, Franklin. I thought you were different."

They fell into an easy silence as Donut continued to walk towards his quarters and found himself with the teenage prince by his side, smiling at every servant who came past to bow and offer their respects.

"Did you enjoy your time away, your Highness?" Donut finally said.

"Fuck no, Bloodgulch is a freaking desert, I got sunburn on my ass! Wyoming's realm sucks balls, feel free to tell him that."

_I'd rather not get stabbed, thank you very much._

"Oh yeah, and Emiyn almost got bit by a scorpion, so now he won't stop ranting about it." He rolled his eyes as he put an arm around Donut's shoulder casually. "They don't even sting that bad, did you know that? And it's not like we don't have a fucking healer with us at all times, it's not like he would've died. But nooo, now he's scared of touching freaking sand in case one of those things are in there. Guess we can just add sand to the growing list of 'things Emiyn is stupidly scared of'."

Donut grimaced. He wasn't really comfortable discussing or mocking the other princes, so he let the Iota carry on his ranting by himself, adding a few noises every now and then.

"Anyway-" The Iota stopped himself as they rounded a corner, and were instantly met with a face identical to his own, save for the worried expression on his face.

"Speak of the scared shitless devil." The Iota laughed and hugged Donut closer as his twin brother approached. "Greetings, Emiy-"

"Seer Franklin." The Eta, Prince Emiyn, said, ignoring his brother completely.

Donut did an awkward bow with the Iota's arm still wrapped around him.

"Can I assist you, my Prince?"

The Eta's brow furrowed slightly and he turned to his brother. "Did you ask him?"

"Did I ask him what _ooooohshitoops_." The Iota said in one breath. He turned to look at Donut with a playful smile. "I forgot. Have you seen Evan?"

"The Epsilon?" Donut said with a small hint of panic in his voice. The youngest of the Princes was a notorious taciturn and mute recluse, and at the tender age of ten, he often hid from his guards. When he had Wash as his personal bodyguard, he was slowly but surely getting out of his shell, but with the recent events the young prince had gone back to hiding and not speaking at all. And he was quite skilled at finding nooks and crannies where no one could find him.

The Eta confirmed Donut's worries. "He's gone missing again. Barely one minute back on the grounds and he's already lost his guards. He hasn't eaten anything in ages."

"One of his... moods?" Donut asked quietly. Every now and then the Epsilon would turn even more reclusive, hiding for days on end without speaking a word to anyone, shaking and sobbing wordlessly if someone found him, clawing to get back into his hiding spot.

"Have care how you speak, Seer." The Eta said sharply, with his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Relax, Emi." The Iota chimed in. "Evan does have moods, and no we don't think it's that bad just now. But father's worried sick... y'know, in his 'quietly seething with rage' kinda way."

 _That does sound like His Majesty_ , Donut thought with a slight grimace.

"Perhaps father should stop insisting on bringing Evan with him on every journey." The Eta said quietly, fidgeting slightly with his hands. "His... It seems to be getting worse."

"Mhm." The Iota said, uncharacteristically serious. Donut felt the Prince's grip strengthen slightly, as if to seek comfort.

"His Grace does seem to be away more often than usual." Donut added after a few moments of uncomfortable silence passed between them. "I do hope everything is alright. We Seers will always try to help him-"

"Yeah, yeah, we're all very loyal to our King yada yada yada." The Iota said and rolled his eyes. "I've had just about enough of dear old dad for a while though."

He clapped Donut's shoulder as he let him go. "See you around, Franklin. I got a brother to find. You coming?"

The Eta nodded, first to the Iota and then to Donut, before they both turned to continue down the hallway.

 _His Grace is away more than usual_ , Donut pondered _._

“Oh!” He exclaimed as a familiar blonde came into his peripheral. He bowed. “Your Highness.”

“May I speak with you, Seer Franklin?” Said the Delta with an urgent tone. “Now?”

\-------------

 _Is that a poacher I see?_ York mused as he spurred his horse around a thick bush of the Oakpalace woods.

He could only see the shape of the man, a blurry one at that, and he couldn’t focus his one functioning eye _too_ much without the one behind the eyepatch twitching in pain. York would like to go one day without the reminder that he looked like a thug wearing Freelancer armor _, thank you very much._

He dismounted his horse quietly and approached the blurry shadow without as much as a leaf crunching beneath his boots. He could make out the shape of a hunter’s bow emerging from beneath a cloak, but whatever the poacher was aiming for, he had no idea. But he knew the area well enough, and this was not one of the regions Guild Hunters were allowed to hunt in.

Gamekeeping and foresting were certainly not parts of his Freelancer duties, but he figured he would make the Gamekeeper’s life a little easier and help out. Most poacher he came across on his father’s realm up north scurried off quickly enough with only a gentle, reprimanding harrumph. Hopefully, this one would do the same.

As the poacher nocked his arrow and readied his bow, York found himself unable to withhold the, very loud, comment;

“Am I bothering you?”

Leaves rustled in the distance, and now York could see the shape of a deer sprinting away, but the poacher only gently let his bow down and put his arrow away somewhere beneath the cloak.

Smaller game York could understand, but big hunting prey like deer, elk or larger predators in this area were completely off limits for those not in the royal family. York sighed and rolled his shoulders as he approached, hand on his hilt and ready for any trouble the poacher could try to bring.

“If you are a registered hunter from a Guild, you are in an area where you are not allowed to hunt. At all. But I have the distinct feeling you are just a random poacher with shit luck.”

“Shit luck, indeed.” The poacher replied, in a voice York didn’t really expect. Clear, authoritative, laced with exasperation.

He removed his hood and turned around, and for a split-second York cursed his eye for choosing that exact moment to blur once more. He blinked.

The man in front of him had his black hair pushed back from his light-green eyes, grey streaks peppering his hair, short beard and furrowed eyebrows. Thin lips were curved down in a disapproving look, and York felt his knee hit the forest floor before he really reacted.

“Your Majesty!” He said, silently mouthing curse words to the ground as his knee seemed to have hit a rock. “Apologies, I didn’t expect-“

“You make a poor Gamekeeper.” King Leonard I said, a finger drumming gently on the string of the bow.

“Your Majesty!” York stood up, wincing slightly. “Do you need any assistance?”

“If you can conjure up another deer, yes.”

York dared a small smile. “I’m more lockpicks and knives than spells and staffs I’m afraid, sire.”

“I see.” The King rolled his shoulder with a small sigh. He seemed to ponder for a moment, gently poking at the dirt with his bow.

“Join me then,” He said at last. “I’ve not a mind for company, but hunting for large game can be quite a drag for only two.”

“Since I just scared the deer away, it is the least I can do.” York responded swiftly, but grimaced inwardly. Small talk with soldiers, _that_ he could do. Entertaining friends with crude humor; absolute expert. _This_ , he felt, was in an area he’d consider himself a complete beginner. “I must confess I was on my way to…” _get completely fucking hammered with North in that small Nochkitian inn a few miles from here_. “…eh.”

“Feel no need to explain your every move to me.” King Leonard I said plainly. “But you do owe me a deer. And I suppose another Freelancer at my side will stop the chamberlain from assuming my death every waking moment in solitude.”

York’s eyebrow furrowed. “ _Another_ Freelancer, sire- ALPHA’S GRACE, SOUTH!”

He jumped back, a knife in his hand by pure instinct, turning to the woman who had just hit him squarely between his shoulder blades.

“You lost something?” The ashen-haired woman said, with a mean sneer and his horse’s reins in her left hand.

“I didn’t _lose_ him, South.” York felt his shackles rise immediately, as if she would stab him in the back at any moment. She wasn’t as good a sneak as Tex was or… well, she was at least somewhat more discreet than he was observant. He had to give her that.

He reached for the reins of Jaune, the buckskin gelding taking a few steps towards his owner as if he was trying to get away from the other Freelancer as well.

“A thank you is in order I believe.” South said, still smiling sadistically.

“You believed wrong.”

A bush rustled gently as the King’s bow went through it. He said nothing, only looked in their direction. York found his mouth snap shut immediately, and he could almost hear South’s sneer disappear as well.

The King grabbed his bow firmly. “Keep up.”

South was behind the King in a second, shoulder-checking York to get in that position quick. York rolled his eyes and tugged at the reins of Jaune, ready to mount.

“What are you doing?”

York turned as he had his foot in the stirrup, ready to jump up in the saddle.

“Ah.” He then said. “I forgot we don’t hunt on horseback here.”

“The forests are too thick.” South responded with a roll of her sharp, grey eyes. She strutted closer to him. “Fuck’s sake, don’t you know how it works down here?”

“Sorry, the land’s a bit more barren up in Argentsable. Too many mines rich with gems and ore, y’know, not much forest. How is your House doing down in Heather’s Rest? Recovered from that infection that killed all your crops in the capitol?”

_Bring it on, South. I can be petty too._

“Moron.” South said as she turned, spooking Jaune slightly. She took off to be close to the King, who seemed to have taken the opportunity to get away from the squabbling Freelancers.

York found himself falling behind a bit, petting Jaune calmingly as they traversed through the thick bushes. Every misstep he took made him think of the cold tankards of fire brandy North no doubt partook in while waiting for him.

He sighed gently and rolled his shoulders.

 _All in a day’s work_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thoughts process as I’m writing this: sHIt I’m introducing the Director in this chapter. I have to make sure that he makes a grand entrance, that he’s memorable! I want people to remember the very first words he says because he’s just THAT impactful.  
> The King’s actual first words: Shit luck, indeed.
> 
> …Eyo hol up.
> 
> It was also interesting developing the Eta and Iota as actual characters, since we've seen them canonwise for a grand total of like 10 seconds. Never speaking. Never showing off how they were like.  
> So this was my take on it. Hope you like them, I had an absolute blast writing them as a duo!


	17. Drinking tea and crossing the Ghostlands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends~~  
> I was away the whole weekend and had, so cleverly, planned to release this chapter on thursday just before we left. Did I remember to do it? No, of course not.   
> But now I'm back in the modern world with some more shenanigans. Have fun!

** Emporó road, a couple of miles east of Kingslight **

****

_I’ve seen those before_ , Wash thought as his gaze came across Tucker’s three, black dots underneath his left eye.

It was early morning, streaks of sunlight entering through small holes in the flaps. The dust swirled in it, giving the otherwise cold and crispy scene a serene filter. Wash’s breath turned into mist, and every lungful of chilly air awakened his mind even further.

It had not been a restful sleep. The tent was fairly large, yes, but not every hole was patched and dealt with. Winds would sweep through both of them and cause Wash to shudder awake. Though in the far corner, as far away as he could possibly scoot, Tucker slept soundly like he was made of ice, unperturbed by temperature.

 _I’m from Whitemount, for the love of the King_ , Wash berated himself. _Our summers are short and filled with rain, and the winters are harsh on both people and land. I should be able to handle thi- Mother of the sky I need another blanket_!!

It was not yet time for these cold mornings, and Wash couldn’t help but send a glare towards the direction of Church’s tent. It was very easy to blame the ill-tempered cryomancer for everything, but he knew that _this_ accusation had some merit. The mage sent a chill wherever he went, Wash had experienced it firsthand.

As Wash attempted to shimmy further into his furs, Tucker stirred for a few seconds, his mouth half-way open in a gentle snore.

Wash’s eye fell across the three dots once more. They looked man-made, and while they were simple in form and color, Wash couldn’t help but think they were ceremonial of some sort. Now _why_ he thought that was a mystery, just as much as their familiarity were.

 _Enough with the suspicion; I could just ask,_ Wash thought to himself. _A quest for the day._

He gave up on trying to fall back asleep, to catch a few more moments of rest before the day’s journey. With as much stealth as he could muster, which wasn’t much at all- dear gods Tex would’ve laughed at his poor attempt of it-, he exited the tent and closed the flaps as well as he could, his gear and clothes in hand.

The morning frost crunched beneath his feet as he tried to put his clothes on at record speed. Their fire at the center of the camp had just burned out, a grey wisp of smoke dancing in the wind. Leaning against one of the logs Caboose had dragged out the night before, sat Doc; soundly asleep.

Wash sighed and rubbed his tired face. He walked closer and gently prodded the smaller man awake.

Doc leaped up, almost straight into the remains of their fire, with his two blankets wrapped around him securely. He looked a little bit like a squirrel Sarah had taken in one day back home, wrapped in cloth with its head whipping back and forth in fear.

“Calm yourself.” Wash whispered. “You’ll wake the whole Guild.”

“Goodness, Wash.” Doc let out a breath and tugged his blankets, although on closer inspections they looked like cloaks, even closer. “You scared me.”

“I wouldn’t have if you had remained awake.” Wash pointed out. “But I suppose it’s no use berating you since we don’t seem to be under attack. The woods are not thick enough for an ambush, and the horses are calm.”

“Keen eyes.” Doc said.

“I’m a Freelancer. Or _was_ at least. If I can keep a prince as elusive as the Epsilon safe, I can assist in keeping this group alive.”

“Oh, I remember the Epsilon.” Doc carried on with an oddly light voice for the otherwise grim subject. “I was assisting Dr. Grey with one of his reclusive sessions once.”

“Hm.” Wash muttered, not eager to add a word to the discussion.

“It’s a bit sad. Did he ever speak to you?”

“He didn’t speak to anyone.”

“Tragic. To be turned mute after the traumatic murder of his mother. A child of… thirteen now? Twelve perhaps?”

“Soon to be eleven.” Wash corrected grimly. “And if you do not mind, this is not a discussion to have in the open. It is a quite delicate matter.”

“Oh… well.” Doc looked around. “No one else is awake, really.”

The words were emphasized by an outrageously loud snore of Caboose in Wash’s own tent.

“Still, not a discussion fit for us two.” Wash concluded. “I rather work in silence than continuing this slander.”

“Slander, huh.” Doc sighed sadly. ”As you wish. I merely wanted to offer you someone to talk to. I’m quite a good listener.”

 _Don’t alienate yourself immediately, Wash. He’s only trying to be nice, as misguided as it might’ve been_.

“I appreciate the offer, Doc.” Wash said. “But this is one matter I rather leave untouched.”

Doc raised his hands in defeat, looking thoughtful. Then he clapped his hands together and fished something out of his pocket. He approached Wash with it, a small cloth bag tied together with a simple string.

“Herbs.” Doc said. “In case your headaches flare up again.”

Wash stared suspiciously at the bag with a furrowed brow, oddly touched but also somewhat uneasy.

“Thank you.” He said and took it. “I will add it to my belongings.”

Doc smiled and dusted himself off. “Right, I believe we have to start with breakfast then. You wouldn’t happen to be good at… building a fire?”

He eyed the dying pile of ash with guilt before turning to Wash, who nodded.

“Certainly. Though I believe we have a pyromancer for a reason.”

“There’s no need to wake him up to do this.” Doc held his head high and tried to look holier than thou. “People without arcane talent need to be able to learn how to do things without the aid of a mage.”

“ _You’re_ a mage, then.” Wash said as he tried to hold the urge to roll his eyes and sigh. _Mages and their mighty opinions of themselves_.

In a second, Doc was back to his happy grin. “Oh, I am! I specialize in green magic. Herbs and the like, although I do dabble in thermodynamic engineering on occasion.”

Wash blinked.

“It helps me grow herbs I normally wouldn’t be able to do on these lands. Just wait until you try my special tea.”

 _I do not like the sound of that_.

Wash grimaced slightly and began collecting twigs and logs for a fire while Doc began fishing different dried herbs and putting them in a filter bag. He had to admit, walking past Doc’s tent on his hunt for wood, that it smelled divine. One would think the mix of smells would become foul and overbearing, but perhaps Doc had made a spell to avoid that effect.

Soon, a small, crackling fire was spreading warmth and crackling noises. Doc’s flowery cauldron stood on top of a blackened cooking stand, and once more Wash was impressed by the smell of it. He wasn’t much for warm drinks in general, and frankly he deemed Doc’s antics a luxury they had little time for, but his inner child seemed to awaken at the smell of cinnamon and vanilla.

“Caboose will get up in a minute.” Doc said. “Nose like a hound, that one.”

“What’s in it?”

“Cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, a _liiiittle_ bit of sweet licorice, fennel and a hint-“ Doc fished out what looked like a dark, dried stick. “-of vanilla.”

“Must cost a fortune.” Wash said as he leaned closer to sniff at it while Doc added the last ingredient.

“To get the original fruit, yes. But then I can just do some of that-“ He waved his arms around. “- _arcane engineering_ and make quite an impressive harvest before the plants die out.”

Doc seemed immensely proud of himself as he brought forth two mugs and filled them. “Care to try?”

Wash politely took his mug and sniffed at it skeptically. After the first sip he had to admit it was quite good, but tea was still not his… cup of tea.

“Flavorful.”

“Isn’t it just?” Doc sighed happily into his own cup. “Let’s just have a few minutes for ourselves before the chaos erupts. Let’s do some mindful thinking and breathing exercises.”

“What now?”

“Hush, Wash.” Doc said as he sat down on the ground, placed his mug on his lap and closed his eyes. “Let’s focus on the now. Take in the ground, the air, the smells and the-“

“I LIKE TEA.” Caboose announced as he emerged from his tent. Half-emerged, as he tried to stand up before he was really out and managed to rip two of the tent pegs out.

“Caboose, please be careful with my tent!” Wash said sternly. “It is of good quality and has been with me for quite some time-“

“Sorry, Mr. Washingtub.” Caboose said as he continued on forward and, to Doc’s and Wash’s mutual horror, grabbed the heavy cauldron straight from the flames and began to drink from it.

“Mother of the sky!” Wash stood up and grasped Caboose’s forearm. The blonde man looked down at him, surprised and confused.

“Huh?”

“Put it down, for the love of the King! You’ll burn your hands.”

Caboose scrunched his nose in confusion before he put the cauldron back slowly, like a child getting caught sneaking a treat from the kitchen. “I wanted tea.”

“ _You wanted_ -“ Wash huffed. “Doc, do you have something for his burns? A salve or oil?”

“What burns? I do not have burns.” Caboose showed them his hands with no signs of injury or scarring. “I am very strong.”

“How-?” Wash grabbed one of his hands. It felt mildly warm, as if he had just warmed himself by the fire for a couple of minutes. “What on earth? Is it a spell? An arcane… thing of some sort?”

Caboose shrugged his shoulders. “Can I have some tea?”

Wash turned to Doc in bewilderment, who only raised his hands in defeat.

“Sure, Caboose.” Doc said, with a hint of fear. “Just don’t grab the cauldron again, ok?”

The pleasant smell seemed to gently rouse the remaining Guild, and soon only the two mages remained in their tent.

“Oh, just leave them.” Tucker yawned as he splashed some fresh water on his face, absurdly careful to not let it touch his hair. “Church is grumpy enough as it is, let’s not give him a reason to bitch.”

Wash opened his mouth to enquire about the peculiar dots underneath Tucker’s eyes, but was unceremoniously snatched into service by Sarge.

“Hold this.” He said and gestured at some clasps at his leather contraption that usually covered his left arm.

Wash’s mouth couldn’t help but fall open in shock, but he recovered smoothly – he thought – and held the clasps firmly. Sarge’s arm was all but atrophied, burnt skin pulled taut over skeleton. The inside of the leather contraption was covered in a smooth, white cream, perhaps for burn relief or scar tissue. Sarge placed his arm in the arm sheath, for lack of better words, and wiggled it around a bit, before grunting out a “That’ll do.”

Wash secured the clasps and took a step back as Sarge moved his arm around and tested it, flexing his fingers and closing them around the ear of the teacup Doc gave him.

“Pretty good, right?” Doc said proudly. “I added lavender drops for the smell.”

Sarge only grunted in response and marched towards the wagon to aid with the packing.

“Hey, sunshine is up-“

“Shut up, Tucker.” Church responded, with no real vehemence. He rolled his shoulders and groaned. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Oh.” Doc said happily and rushed to join him near the fire, where the mage had started to scribble down symbols in a circle. He looked up with a furrowed brow as Doc sat down next to him.

“Personal space.” He said.

“Hush, you’re better at drawing circles than me. I’m next in line.”

“There’s only _one_ other mage, Doc. And he’s not even up yet.”

“Please.” Doc pleaded with a small smile, to which Church only rolled his eyes and continued scribbling. Within a minute or two he was done, and sat in it with crossed legs much like he had the night before.

Wash tried his best to seem somewhat occupied and disinterested, glancing back at the circle every now and then to see what has happening. Once more, blue light emanated from the lines, but only lasted for a few seconds before it died down and Church shook his head before standing up, yawning.

“Alright, where’s the fucking tea?”

As Doc turned to point at the cauldron, Simmons had not only woken up, but had also sniffed out the -what Wash’s very limited knowledge would call it- mage circle and practically threw himself into it. Doc turned around with an affronted gasp.

“Hey!”

“Dibs.” Simmons smiled.

“Church.” Wash said. “How fares the journey today? Are we making good time?”

The mage shook his shoulders. “Good enough. If we can pack up within the hour we’ll reach the Ghost Lands soon enough, better be done with it now when the sun’s up. That shit is creepy.”

“Very well.” Wash said and turned to gather his things from the tent.

The Reds and Blues packed up at a somewhat languid pace, with only Church and Sarge to berate the slow pace on occasion. Wash would on occasion gently nudge Caboose whenever he got distracted by something, but the rest seemed only to bristle at his remarks. Tucker especially, glaring daggers at him whenever Wash commented on how he should _perhaps_ not stop his packing just to redo his braid.

The sun had moved quite a bit before Wash swung himself up in his saddle, and he rolled his shoulders in annoyance. Naturally, the Freelancers were the epitome of efficiency when it came to travelling; no whining, arguing or nasty comments were in the air as they loaded their wagons or prepared the horses. But with the Reds and Blues it seemed almost a ritual, and it contained no small number of pranks. Wash had barely time to duck one time as Sheila descended from the sky, dropping a fish on Grif’s head as Sarge howled in laughter.

_Only two months left…at best._

Wash grimaced at the prospect, and he knew he would no doubt lose his patience several times during the journey. Perhaps he could knock some military sense into the Guild, but he didn’t have much hope for it.

Crossing the Ghost Lands was something that seemed to haunt the minds of the whole Guild, and the closer they came to the borders of the Oakwood Palace region, the more people seemed to fidget or turn quiet. A distant grey shimmer under a streak of oddly dark clouds on an otherwise sunny day signaled that they were soon to cross it.

The Ghost Lands walked the borders of every region in Potentia, an oddly arcane phenomenon that seemed unique to the nation. Whitemount stood a cold, mountainous neighbor to the horizontal strait of Burning Mounds; a place steeped in sand and heat. An impossible geographical scenario, if it weren’t for the Ghostland’s magical borders.

Wash rolled his shoulders to try and shake the eerie feeling away, but it soon creeped up on him again. Perseus fidgeted underneath him and nervous neighs and whinnies filled the otherwise peculiar silence.

Soon the border of the region was upon them, and the grey shimmer he had seen over the horizon had turned to a wall of grey mist, stretching as far as he could see, an odd hum tickling his mind and making his ears pop.

Wash turned to Church, who also seemed to give himself a moment to steel himself for the crossing before he turned back to the rest of the Guild;

“Ready?”

“Nope.” Tucker said immediately as he dismounted from his horse. Francis seemed particularly nervous, and bucked and kicked as Tucker tried to rein him in. “Doc, you got anything for Dipshit?”

“Oh.” Doc said as he climbed down from his own horse and handed Simmons the reins. He rummaged through some of his belongings in the back of the wagon before procuring a mortar and pestle, grinding something down to a fine dust. He gathered some of the dust in his hand and made his way back to Francis.

“Hold him steady, please.”

He then whispered something into his hands as green sparkles erupted from the dust, and as he blew the dust towards Francis the horse seemed to calm immediately.

“Huh.” Wash couldn’t help but emit an impressed huff as Doc dusted his hands off with a happy smile.

“There we go, happy to help.” He mounted his horse once more and looked around. “Anyone else before we head in? Magic doesn’t work in the Ghost Lands!”

“Which means none of you fuckers better get hurt.” Church added. “We’ll have to drag you out through the border first before I can do any healing.”

“Noted.” Wash said and spurred his horse on.

Perseus seemed only mildly annoyed by the wall of grey mist, and entered through it with only a small snort. As Wash entered, the light seemed to turn into a sickly greenish hue, and the air turned thin and wispy. The land was flat and grey, covered only in a fine dust that swirled gently whenever Perseus’s hooves came across it.

The Ghost lands stretched only a kilometer wide, with the mountainous region of Heather’s Rest on the other side, but time seemed to turn slow and sluggish as they waded through the eerily empty no man’s land. No animals ventured past the seemingly magical borders, and the soil was dead and unfertile. Wooden poles dotted their way forward, though Wash could only see a dozen or so before the mist swallowed everything.

“Y’know,” Grif broke the silence, his voice almost echoing in the eerie space. “This crazy sailor back home used to think that the Ghost Lands would stretch until it covered the entire continent.”

“Don’t say that, Grif.” Doc whispered nervously.

“He refused to go on any ship that would land on Potential soil.” He continued, unperturbed. “Thinking he would turn to dust immediately.”

Simmons shivered and drew his maroon cloak closer. “And they say _my_ homeland is creepy.”

“Can you guys stop bitching?” Church added with a glare. “Everything echoes here, it’s giving me a headache.”

“Wanna say that louder?” Tucker smiled viciously before whistling something. It echoed back in a somewhat haunting manner that didn’t seem to bother him at all.

“You seem quite pleased.” Wash said, surprised. Church was right, the very air seemed hostile and his head would ache every now and then.

“Meh.” Tucker said. “Better this than the air in Kingslight. It’s like… thick and putrid and _guh_.”

“Uh yeah, thick with _oxygen_.” Grif argued. “You seriously not getting lightheaded from this?”

Tucker shook his head with a superior grin. “Cut from a different cloth, bitches!”

Everyone else besides Tucker kept their somewhat muted mood, with only the sounds of hooves and wheels to break the silence. When the air started to feel different, Wash took a deep breath and found himself spurring his horse on a little bit quicker, knowing that an end to the Ghost Lands was upon them.

The mist turned thick once more, with a visibility that didn’t stretch more than a meter. Wash took one last breath and closed his eyes as he crossed the shimmering wall. His eyes almost burned at the sudden onslaught of the sun’s cold light. As he opened them, it took a while to adjust to the sights.

The landscape was open and mountainous, with fields of heathers turning the landscape into a beautiful array of violets. The air felt fresh and cold and much more _alive_ than what they had been stuck in before.

A large, circular watchtower stood at the beginning of a winding, well-used road that would lead them down the hill they were on. A guardsman wearing a tabard with the Dakota colors popped his head out from a window in the tower.

“Good afternoon!” Wash called.

“Quite a large party at this time of day.” The guardsman called back from his window. “You heading to Tempest, by any chance?”

Wash hesitated only for a moment to answer, his gentleman’s code of conduct winning over his recent need to keep everything under wraps. “That we are. We’re Guildsmen.”

“Ah, off to questing then. Hold on.” The guardsman disappeared from his window as both Church and Sarge came up besides Wash.

A few seconds passed before he came out through the main door, flanked by a few more men sporting their polearms somewhat defensively.

“Who’s your leader, then?”

“I am.” Church said immediately, and Wash found himself roll his shoulders uncomfortably. Church _could_ perhaps be the most senior member, if Wash could guess how he got his rank, but he lacked a calm and clear-headedness Wash would describe a leader to need to be.

But he sat still, and only mildly grimaced as the guardsmen turned to Church.

“Alright then. Gonna need my boys to make a quick check in your wagon. Nothing to it, we’ve just got new orders to be more careful. War and all, y’know.”

“Certainly.” Church said, oddly calm and formal, and turned back to nod at Grif before he locked eyes with the guardsman. “How goes the crops here? Heard there was an epidemic?”

 _Who are you and what have you done to the healer?_ Wash eyed Church with great suspicion.

“Bah, leave a seed in the arms of the peasants and it will grow into a forest in a second.” He waved away the worries. “Bad crops are no news to anyone; it’ll be fine by the next harvest. Lady Dakota knows the earth like no other.” 

“Good to hear.” Church said as the guardsman came back saying, “All clear, they’re good to go! That dog scared the shit out of me though!”

Wash could hear Sarge snicker as Lopez barked from the back of the wagon, quite pleased. But before they had time to spur their horses on, the first guardsman held up his arm. “Hold up one moment. Are you fellas a full crew? Waiting for someone?”

“Is this an interrogation?” Church asked. “If you want to take a look at our contract you can just ask; we have nothing to hide.”

 _We have everything to hide_ , Wash disagreed privately.

The guardsmen waved his arm once more. “Nothing like that, fella. We just got a boy waiting for his crew is all.”

“Hey guys!” A voice yelled from the watch tower, as if on cue. Wash looked up to see a young, blonde man with a pink travel cloak stick his head out from the window. “Took you long enough!”

“Captain Pastry!” Caboose cried in delight.

“Franklin!” Wash called as the newcomer came down to greet them. “What is this? Have you been sent away from…?”

He stopped himself. A person as valuable as a Seer could be seen as a ripe opportunity from any man with more malicious intent. Better not give away his certain skills.

“Dee sent me! Called me aside all ‘I need to speak with you, urgently’” Franklin said happily as he received a hug from Caboose. “He thought I was pretty darn central to your quest!”

Wash opened his mouth to ask further questions, but took one long look at the guardsmen and decided to wait for a better opportunity.

“Don’t worry.” Franklin said and waved away the worrisome look Wash no doubt had on his face. “The King knows I’m here. Dee wouldn’t send me otherwise.”

Wash inwardly groaned as the guardsmen looked at each other in astonishment and confusion.

“Hop on, then.” Church said quickly, also seemingly eager to get away fast. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

The guardsman touched their helmets in respect and let them pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at Doc trying to sell of chai as his own herbal invention. It will cost him a fortune to be away from them though, bless his heart. Dr. Grey will kill all his plants.   
> So, I wrote chapter 25 (with Donut being very central in it) like… way earlier than this, and completely forgot that Donut wasn’t necessarily supposed to be there. So I changed the entire story; now Admiral Poppinfresh can join the team. Huzzah!


	18. A long lost brother

** Capitol of Potentia, Kingslight **

** Meteor Fortress  **

****

”His Majesty is not all that pleased, I hear.” York said musingly as Dee walked through the door from King Leonard’s solar. The prince seemed agitated and tired, with his blonde hair somewhat ruffled and his bright, green eyes shining.

“So it seems.” Dee said darkly through gritted teeth before he pushed his blonde bangs from his eyes and let out a small sigh. He dusted his beautifully patterned green and gold robes, fastened with golden details and chains. Dark brown leather boots clicked against the marbled floor as the prince tapped his feet in annoyance.

York looked around for a second, before adding a quiet; “Was it just because of Donut or-“

“You are quite aware of how close he likes to hold his Seers.” Dee responded. “But no, it was not _just_ that. He heard of the quest I issued as well.”

York grimaced. “And?”

“And he made it quite clear it was the wrong move to do in war times. We are _pressed enough as it is_ without me sending an able-bodied Kingslight Guild away on national quests.”

“Has he heard about Wash joining them as well?” York pressed, shifting gently on his tiptoes.

Dee shook his head gently. “Not yet, I imagine. Though I gather he wouldn’t mind to see Washington away, as he so colorfully refused him entry in the Keep.”

Dee started to walk and York took up quickly behind him. He had to hide a snort as he soon figured out where the prince was headed; the library. Forever buried in books, that one.

“I argued,” Dee continued quietly. “That it would be more… logical to send the aid of Franklin as well, since the Grand Seer seemed to speak to him through visions, if the information I was given was correct.”

“I believe so.”

“I gather we need the Grand Seer in times of war as well, regardless of what His Majesty seems to think. To lose her right now… So far Potentia seem to be the one nation with people of such ability, and I aim to keep us that way. It gives us an edge in the battle our enemies can’t even entertain to match us with. I don’t understand _why_ this isn’t paramount-“

Dee stopped suddenly, slightly flushed. ”Forgive me, I’m acting quite the child. This is hardly good behavior of a prince.”

“Right, cuz I’m a shining beacon of noble behavior.” York laughed as he clapped the shoulder of the prince. Had Wash been there, he would’ve no doubt glared and mouthed to York about proper conduct towards royalty. But York could feel Dee relax slightly. Now he seemed _only_ very tense, as opposed to the almost statue-like tension his shoulders seemed to carry most days. “So, let us go. I’m sure we’ll find something that desperately requires your royal attention in a bar somewhere. There’s this _great_ inn-“

Dee shook his head immediately, as if somewhat frightened by the very notion. “No, York. I thank you, but there are _too_ many things I need to do before a respite seems fair.”

York sighed. It didn’t take a genius to see how much pressure the eldest prince was under, with worried lines seemingly constant on his brow and his eyes sporting a new, sunken look. His very posture spoke of how drained he was, as much as he tried to hide it. Gods forbid that he should ever act human.

“Derek,” York said quietly, and Dee looked up. “Just take a break every now and then. No one looks good with those bags under their eyes. Not even you.” He added the last sentence with what he hoped was a sardonic smile.

Dee sputtered. “I-I… a few signs of fatigue mustn’t stop me. I’m the heir to the throne in a time of war, I must do my duty!”

 _I’ll have to knock you unconscious to get you to rest_ , York sighed.

“Lead the way, Your Highness.”

“No, if I may…” Dee looked around to ensure the hallway was empty before he tugged York’s arm closer.

“What is it?”

“I… I find myself in the need of a second opinion, and I beg of you to not tell another soul of this.”

“You can trust me, Dee.” York smiled. “I got your back.”

Dee smiled for a second, a rare thing. York counted it as a personal win. “Thank you, York. It has bothered me for quite some time. It’s about the symbol the Reds and Blues had found on their adversaries on Emporó road.”

“Oh?” That sparked York’s interest immediately, and he found himself standing straighter. “Any news?”

“Quite.” Dee fished out a bejeweled journal from his robes. He turned quite a few pages filled with mathematical equations before he stopped at a sketch. “This is it.”

“Did you sketch it from memory?” York said. “Damn Dee, you had it in your hand for, like, a second.”

Dee flushed slightly before he cleared his throat and pointed at the odd arrowhead-like symbol. “Allow me to explain. I believe these are letters, put together to create the symbol.”

York’s brow furrowed. “Doesn’t look like Potentian letters.”

“It’s ancient Helleci, from the Helleci Isles my family is from.” Dee added. “It’s… It’s our titles. This triangle here represents the Delta.”

York felt like he was missing something entirely. “Uh-huh?”

“See this here?” Dee pointed at the bottom of the symbol. The bottom part, what York thought had looked like an E turned to the side. It was colored orange and red, unlike the remainder of the white lines. “It’s the Helleci letter for our Potentian _S_.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Also known as _Sigma_.”

York’s face fell, his hands felt somewhat clammy and his mouth fell open. Dee looked up at him.

“Are you serious?” York said. “You think it’s Sigma? Why would he- no, wait, never mind.”

“It’s just a thought, and quite an absurd one as well.” Dee added. “Still, I can’t help but entertain the possibility. I do know my brother, and he had always had a… dramatic flair. If he’s behind it, he’d want us to know.”

“Psychopathic flair, more like it.” York huffed. He pulled at hair slightly, pondering. 

“York?”

“I’m fine.” York sighed. “Crap, if it’s really him he’s got something else up his fucking sleeve. He wouldn’t just start a gang and attack people down the streets.”

“Agreed.” Dee said with a small sigh. “I do not know what to make of this, yet.”

“The Chamberlain has the real fabric, doesn’t he? I suppose it will reach the King’s ear within a few hours.”

“Most likely.” Dee stopped for a second as they let a guard pass them with a respectful bow and courtesies. Dee only nodded towards the person, somewhat pale in the face. He pushed his hair away from his eyes again and nodded to York before continuing down the hallway towards the library.

“I hope I’m wrong.” Dee said. “We have a war to plague us, adding Sigma to our worries is not a thought I’d like to entertain.”

“Unfortunately, you’re rarely wrong.”

“Yes, York.” Dee agreed with the hint of a smile. “Unfortunately, I am rarely wrong.”

__________

“So, Tempest looks like shit.” Grif proclaimed to the Guild. He stood up from his place on the wagon, balancing carefully, as he looked at city emerging between the surrounding peaks.

“Grif, sit down.” Franklin chastised him and grabbed his belt. “You’re gonna fall down!”

“Nonononono, I wanna see the harbor.” Grif said. “I think I see an Egeniellan ship!”

Wash couldn’t help but crane his neck slightly as well, hoping to see the exotic ship. The sun isles were masters of the sea, with ships that were vastly different to the former Potentian navy. They were, supposedly, hundreds of years ahead of their neighboring countries when it came to shipbuilding and naval warfare; with ships the size of castles and giant iron cannons operated by pyromancers. Alas, he couldn’t see anything past the hill.

The trip had taken them about two weeks after they had crossed the Ghost Lands, with little else to enjoy but the landscape.

The region continued to impress Wash’s more artistic side, and he would on occasion draw some of the more impressive scenery. Trickling waterfalls down mountainsides, hills covered with heathers, forests of birch trees most of them found enjoyable. Save for Simmons who couldn’t stop sneezing.

But it wasn’t much love between Wash and the Guild, despite their joint journey. The Reds and Blues seemed insistent on keeping their group loose and unregimented, with only the occasional effort from Church and Sarge when things went too slowly. He had hoped to gain some kinship with his new team, but alas; they seemed to differ on every single subject or behavior so far.

 _For Connie_ , he thought, for what could be the 100th time that month.

While the guardsman had seemed eager to downplay the bad harvest, Wash couldn’t help but notice the high number of dead fields they came across as they neared Tempest. It _did_ seem more like a virus or malicious bacteria than a bad year. He didn’t envy the Dakota family, and thought sadly of North for a second.

They agreed before they hit the city to split up, try to find their way on a ship heading towards the Ghost Cliffs as soon as possible; preferably a ship of gentlemen or the navy. Sarge argued the last part quite vocally, trying to regale the others in stories of grand pirate ships and treasures, but the remaining Guild thought better of the idea and voted against it. Sarge was therefore paired off with Simmons, as the pyromancer could hopefully keep an eye out on the Red leader.

And with that, they parted.

Church took on ahead with great speed, spurring his horse on just as they were settling on their rendezvous, with Sarge seemingly taking it as a race. Lopez immediately hopped on as well, sprinting after them with his tongue sticking out.

“So much for keeping an eye on him.” Simmons sighed miserably.

“Are you alright on horseback?” Wash asked Tucker.

“Man, I can't wait to take ship, honestly.” He admitted, rolling his shoulders and massaging his neck. “I call dibs on driving next time.”

“The hell you are.” Grif sing-songed smugly. “You can barely manage _one_ horse, good luck with two.”

Tucker flipped Grif off before he too took off, seemingly at the behest of his horse and not at his own free will. Apparently, the horse seemed quite eager to part with its rider as well.

Wash nodded towards the rest of the Guild and spurred his horse on. A childish glee entered his soul as Perseus galloped away, and they passed Tucker quite quickly.

“Showoff!” Wash heard Tucker yell, but he brushed it off with a small smile.

The lands were quite similar, although slightly warmer, than his own region; and as he passed his surroundings with great speed, he couldn’t help but think of Connie once more. She was a bit more rambunctious, always ready to race over the hills and disappear into the heavy woods at neck-breaking speed. Wash would always yell words of caution, and very rarely rise to the bait. But there was something about crossing open landscapes in a full sprint, the wind beating around his face, the sound of hooves and the rush of adrenaline as the muscles of the horse moved beneath him.

Hells, he remembered whenever the royal family came to visit their estate in Avalanche. Prince Leo _loved_ to race-

He stopped suddenly, reining his horse in as the headache hit him fast. Spots appeared in his vision and he jumped off Perseus in mild panic, grasping the saddle whilst breathing heavily.

 _Just breathe. Just breathe. You’ll be fine_.

He searched his saddlebags for the bag of herbs Doc had been kind enough to procure for him, but fumbled as Perseus bucked slightly in annoyance.

“Mother of the Sky!” He whispered and closed his eyes as he leaned against the agitated horse. When he opened his eyes again, his sight focused on the city of Tempest off in the distance. He focused on counting the pillars of smoke from the many chimneys, and when that became too much of a task; the towers dotting the walls surrounding the city would do.

Finally, his headache seemed to clear enough for him to mount Perseus once more, and the stallion seemed to snort a ‘ _finally’_ as he spurred him on once more, this time at a much more languid pace.

 _What was I thinking about again?_ He shook the thought away as the headache creeped up on him tentatively.

Tempest was the region’s capitol, a huge harbor city with buildings climbing high and tall, competing for the area within the walls. Up on a peak, Wash could spot the ancestral home of the Dakotas, a large and impressive Keep; much bigger than his own in Avalanche, but somewhat ancient and odd. The castle was one of the eldest buildings in Potentian history, its history dating back way before the lands had been conquered by the current royal bloodline some century ago.

Wash remembered fondly how North would sigh on occasion at the mention of the Dakota Keep; apparently the view over the harbor from his own room was to die for.

The sound of seagulls and the smell of salt washed over Wash the closer he got to the city, and before long he was weaving his horse between the crowds. He jumped down quick enough and led Perseus down the cobblestoned street. The city was built upon a hill, with a clear view of the harbor as Wash walked down the main road. He spotted many ships anchored there, many boats and schooners, but also a vast number of frigates and larger warships.

He squinted slightly as a particular ship came into view, one with a sleek, grey paintwork on the hull and queer, rectangular holes above the gunports.

 _A spiked warship_ , Wash mused. He’d seen only a few of those, as they were meant for travel all over the Potentian Commonwealth. It was one of the few types of ships somewhat equipped to the more dangerous routes to the Egeniellan Isles, the protruding spikes meant as protection against attacking sea dragons and other aquatic monstrosities.

One such warship would frequent Darkpass, a harbor city in his own region, and one often used to take on soldiers to ship them off to war down in Scania. Its Captain, a boorish but honest woman, would on occasion seek to visit his estate to dine with his family. And while she was perhaps not the type of company Wash would keep, frankly she scared him, she could _perhaps_ help them across The Ghost cliffs. If it was stationed in Tempest, it was most likely headed to Nochkit.

 _Time to find Niner_ , Wash thought as he led Perseus down the road to the harbor. If that frigate was indeed hers, she would no doubt be found in a bar nearby. She rarely ventured far from her vessel.


	19. The Manu Wai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends~~  
> I told myself I wasn't allowed to release my favorite chapter so far -AKA this one- unless I had finished chapter 43. In the end, I managed to write three pages of it before I caved in and published this chapter regardless. Because I can! 
> 
> Some warning words: this chapters has… some more OC’s. The crew of the Manu Wai (a third-rate frigate) is somewhere around 500, and I was trying to make it more alive but having some officers and crewmembers named. Unfortunately, I don’t think a lot of the pilots -like Niner- are named? I needed distinct personalities, and none of the canon characters worked for me here. I hope you'll be ok with some officers and crewmembers being made up <3

** Capitol of the region of Heather’s rest; Tempest  **

** The bar ‘The Sailor’s respite’ **

“Captain Ash?” Wash said.

It had taken him quite some time to find her; the bars lining the port were quite many, with an increasing number of patrons rushing in as the sun slowly settled on the horizon. He had passed Simmons and Grif on his search, bearing new that he might have found their way on a ship. It had been mentioned quite carefully, for Wash could truly not _promise_ that they would find transport on the ship; but the second he had nodded towards the spiked warship that Captain Ash was in charge of, Grif had almost fainted.

It was, apparently, an absolute jewel and a perfect specimen of the Egeniellan-made Royal navy. As a man from the Egeniellan isles, Grif had went on quite an impressive monologue as he pointed at the many wonders of the vessel. Wash had listened politely for a solid five minutes before he quickly made his apologies and left, leaving a somewhat distressed Simmons with his ecstatic partner.

The bar where he at last believed he spotted her was called _The Sailor’s Respite_ and sported large, open windows letting its patrons enjoy the view of the sea and sunset. The salt in the air seemed to leave permanent marks on the furniture and floor, and Wash had absentmindedly scraped some white powder off of the door before he had entered.

It was apparently quite the spot for navy men, with uniformed men and women everywhere in the crowd. He took in the faces of some dark-haired female captains before he, at last, turned to the bar in order to approach one with a dark braid down to her back.

She didn’t respond at first, so Wash cleared his throat and tried once more;

“Captain Ash?”

The woman turned around with an exasperated sigh and a finger raised in his direction. Before she had even looked up to meet his eyes, she said;

“Yes, citizen, I do believe those _cheating_ scoundrels are mine. And fear not, they will face the bosun’s whip once we set sail. And yes; I am very aware that one of the scoundrels _is_ in fact the bosun, we’ll find a way to set her straight too.”

When Wash only stood with a furrowed brow, the woman looked up to get an actual look of him.

She was Egeniellan, with a bronzed face and dark hair, her eyes a wonderous mix of colors; almost like the sunset over the sea. She sported a couple of scars, one just at the corner of her mouth that made her lips droop a bit. A peculiar scar covered the majority of her neck, red and pocketed. The mark of a sea dragon no doubt, as some were able to spew acid. Her uniform was recently steamed and pressed, but her neckcloth rumpled and her shirt and pants in need of a wash.

She looked ready to fight at first, her eyes glinting with agitation, but as she saw his face they opened in surprise:

“Oh hell, it’s a Washington! David, correct?”

“It is indeed. Greetings, Captain Ash. I do hope you and your ship are in good health?”

“I’m running a bit ragged, but yes; I suppose I could be doing worse.” Captain Ash leaned back against the bar, terribly informal for a woman representing the Royal Navy. She seemed to catch the exact sentiment in Wash’s disapproving look, and stood up straighter with her hands neatly against her back. “What brings a Washington up to Heather’s Rest? Everything alright down in the capitol? Besides your expungement of course, sorry about that.”

The sentiment came out practiced and terribly ingenuine, but Wash shook it off. Ash had a certain blunt speech he could accept.

“Appreciate the sentiment, Captain. I have taken up employment with a Guild at the moment, and we are in fact here on a quest. I don’t suppose your Manu Wai is still with us?”

“Ha, she certainly is!” She said with a certain gleam in her eyes. Her next sentence came out with much enthusiasm, as if talking of a lover; “My little third-rate’s still kicking with the best of them. Got a few new officers causing trouble, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Wash could personally not consider a three-masted, two-decked warship with 74 guns and over 500 crewmembers a _little third-rate_ , but to each their own. He wasn’t a naval man, after all.

His brow furrowed. “Your crew causing you trouble? Is everything alright?”

She waved away his worries. “Growing pains. New members pop in, old crew tests the limits and see what they can do, etc etc. I’ve seen it a hundred times on the sea, it’s nothing. Pity my new lieutenant’s such a good hand at gambling though. I’ve had five people come up to me accusing him and his friends of cheating.” She rolled her eyes. “Half the folk in this part of Tempest can’t count to twenty, how in the hell did they think they were ever gonna win a game of dice against an educated officer?!”

Wash blanched and he looked at her with disbelief. “Surely, an officer on your ship has not spent his time on land _gambling_?”

“Storm _certainly_ has, but you can bet your ass O’Riley’s gonna let him have it for the rest of the journey.” She took a sip of her drink, and turned to the bartender, conveniently missing Wash’s face paling in indignation with her choice of language. “Sorry, where are my manners; can we get some service here?”

“It’s quite alright, Captain.” Wash said, but found himself directed to her table regardless.

She fished out a pipe from her belongings as the bartender served them both fine glasses of autumn wine. Wash sipped on it carefully as he waited for her to take a few drags of smoke.

“So, your quest takes you to Tempest, ey?” She said.

“Actually, if you’ll allow me to be so bold-“ Wash cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose your ship is bound to Backwash? I know you and your crew are quite adapt at that route by now.”

“We certainly are.” She said with a raised eyebrow. “Are you asking me to take on a few extra boxes of cargo, now?”

Wash allowed himself a small smile. “ _We_ are the cargo, in fact. Our quest is of… _national_ importance.” He said the last words quietly, looking around himself.

She snorted. “Gods, you Washingtons are a melodramatic bunch, ey? If you need my ship, you need only ask like a normal person.”

The corner of Wash’s mouth twitched in annoyance. “I am not _trying_ to be dramatic, Captain Ash, I can assure you that. I do mean what I say about the urgency of our mission, and your assistance would be greatly appreciated. Though I suppose I’m getting a bit ahead of myself; when are you leaving for Backwash?”

“Tomorrow.” She said as she chewed on her pipe absentmindedly, her eyes fixed on set of stairs leading down to a basement level. “We’ve been stationed here far too long; the crew is getting restless and ragged and my officers are quite ready to face the open sea again.”

“It seems fate is on our side, then.” Wash said with a small smile. “I’m not much of a religious man, but I do believe it is faith.”

“Oh, are you trying to appeal to my Egeniellan mindset, now?” She barked a laugh. “I didn’t think you were so manipulative. Don’t you try to sway me with talk of gods, you know how much we islanders love our deities!”

“I wasn’t trying to-“

She waved his words away with a casual smirk. “Of course not-“ She stopped suddenly as a couple of men and women ascended from the basement.

“If you’ll excuse me.” She said as she neared them. There were three of them in total, two men and one woman; all in their late twenties. As one of them, a lanky sailor with an easy smile and a mop of light brown hair, turned to catch the eyes of the Captain; he blanched slightly.

“Mr. Fingal.” Captain Ash said as she approached with her hands placed on her back, her voice far too calm for her devilish smile. Wash couldn’t help but listen in.

“Captain.” All three of them said in various degrees of enthusiasm, saluting her.

The brown-haired man grimaced slightly to the other man, a more built, dark-haired and bearded officer wearing a navy-blue uniform and the bars on his shoulders indicating the rank of a lieutenant. A small purse passed from the two of them down to the sailor-clad woman standing next to them, a practiced maneuver Captain Ash didn’t seem to catch at first. Wash stood up quietly, ready to intervene.

“You’re causing quite the scene.” She reprimanded the lieutenant. Her mannerism had switched quite quickly from the relaxed posture-although far too relaxed for an officer in the Royal Navy in Wash’s opinion- and stood straight, speaking with a clear, authoritative voice. “Made a fortune yet, Storm?”

Her lieutenant laughed heartily and shook his head. He seemed borderline insubordinate with his casual mannerism around his superior officer. “No such thing, Captain. But I am quite adept at dice by now, and sadly some of the men downstairs are not.”

“No barfights, then?” She said with the hint of a smile.

“On my honor, for what it’s worth.” Storm said with a small bow. “I hope we haven’t been causing you any trouble?”

“Not yet, but the night is young.” She turned to look at the group. “Is the surgeon not with you? You’re usually joined at the hip, all of you.”

Wash was taken back for a second, his gaze falling on the crew in front of him. The officers and the crew rarely mixed; a certain level of professionalism and rank was to be expected on a ship of the Royal Navy after all. To hear that a commissioned officer, a _lieutenant_ even, would spend his time on land with part of the rougher men of the crew made Wash worry slightly.

“Sending letters to her family up in Demec du Marque.” Said the woman, a lithe person with a smatter of freckles across her face, her long, reddish hair tied in a practical bun. She put the purse away under her vest as Wash approached with a small cough.

“Pardon me.” He said and inclined his head. “But if you’ll permit me to butt in, I believe a purse have made its discreet way towards you? May I inquire about it?”

The woman blinked in surprise and agitation and opened her mouth, but Captain Ash interfered with a wave of her hand.

“David Washington, this here is part of my crew. Ralph Fingal here is the gunner, John Storm is my third lieutenant beating everyone at dice and the bosun over here-“ She put out her hand at the woman with a raised eyebrow. The woman sighed gently and procured the purse once more-“ Is Orion.”

“What’s this, then?” Captain Ash opened the purse to look at its content. “Prize money?”

“Aye.” Storm said with a huge smile. “If you’ll permit, I believe I’ll get myself a new sheathe for my sword. And Orion’s whip needs to be oiled.”

“It gets used quite often, yes. I’ll allow it, these astari are yours to spend as you see fit.” Captain Ash tossed the purse back to the lieutenant. “But I don’t want to see you gamble anymore tonight, Storm. Get your new gear, and then I’ll see you at the ship. We have a couple extra boxes of cargo.”

 _Huh_ , Wash thought. _That was easy_.

As the trio left, she turned to him. “We’ll take you along.”

“I gathered so. Thank you, Captain Ash. We will be sure to mention you in our report to the Guildmasters.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She said as they returned to their table. She took a swig of wine, from Wash’s glass, he realized with a small frown. “Now… this will of course not come cheap.”

\--------------------

“She’s beautiful!” Grif squealed when the Guild gathered at the docks the following day, packed and ready for the sea. He jumped up and down and pointed, once more, to the giant ship. “Just fucking _look_ at her! 74 cannons! That baby can probably crush a fucking fleet by itself _ohbythegodslookatherSAILS!”_

Wash couldn’t help but smile gently as Grif sprinted to the end of the docks as one of the longboats approached to take them aboard.

“What was the name of her Captain, son?” Sarge said. “Ash?”

“Yes, although she uses the name _Niner_ on occasion as well. But to me, and by extension _us,_ she’s Captain Ash.”

“So how much of our funds were used to get us onboard _that?_ ” Church said skeptically as he stared at the ship. “That fucker’s huge.”

“Captain Ash is an acquaintance of my family.” Wash responded with ill-hidden pride, although he grimaced slightly. It had not been cheap by any means, but Simmons was in charge of their finances; and the man was quite adept at managing them. Surely, they would be fine. “The Manu Wai is a great warship, with a crew quite used to the route to Backwash. She’s the fastest way to our goal.”

“Well, then.” Church said, for once not the one to complain, and he hoisted part of their belongings and went to the longboats.

“Oh, I’ve never been on a ship before.” Franklin confessed nervously. “I hope I don’t get too seasick.”

“Fear not.” Doc said happily. “I have some remedies for that. Not much for the sea myself, so I know my way around brews and herbs for the sea-sick!”

“Bless you.” Franklin sighed in relief and turned to Wash. “Shall we?”

“Certainly.” Wash turned back to the Guildmembers not yet onboard. Which, as it turned out, was just Caboose, saddling many bags and chests on his person. “By the mountains, you needn’t exert yourself so!”

“I am strong!” Caboose said with a huge smile, moving away as a member of the Manu Wai crew went to take the chest off of him. “I can carry it.”

“I, on the other hand, have no quarrels leaving my belongings to you, Matthew.” A woman said, approaching them with hurried steps. She wore fine but practical clothes, her shirt a fine cotton, scarves colorful and her dark hair tied back with a beautiful, Marque, hair tie.

The crew nodded towards her and grabbed her bags. She turned to Wash with a friendly smile.

“I heard from Storm we’ve come across a few more _boxes of cargo_. I don’t suppose that would be you?”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put us in crates.” Wash responded, with a small bow. She seemed like a proper lady. “But yes, that would be us.”

“Dr. Fredrika Veritas, and you would be so good as to forget my first name now that you have it, if you please.” She said as she shook his hand. Surprisingly strong grip, and Wash found himself grasping his own hand afterwards with a small grimace. “Scanian first names don’t do well on a Potentian warship.”

“Certainly.” He said, privately adding that he would most definitely _not_ forget to ask her about her ties to their enemy land, and gestured towards one of the longboats. “Allow me to take you down to the vessel, then.”

The longboat was packed quite fully, but eventually they were away on their way to the ship. Wash was struck with the thought that he would surely miss the solid ground for a good month, and he viewed the city of Tempest with a gentle sigh.

Veritas had taken it upon herself to discuss herbs with Doc, comparing methods. Doc seemed enthusiastic at first, but when the good doctor gestured something that looked an awful lot like amputating a leg with an imaginary bone saw, he blanched and found himself staring at his bags of herbs with a worried look.

As the giant vessel closed in on them, bellowed orders and blows of whistles echoed over the waters. Wash could see Grif stick his head out over the railing, observing some crewmen hoisting up supplies via the bosun’s chair. Their hunter was practically beaming, seemingly incredibly delighted to be aboard the Manu Wai. He looked down at them as they approached the gangway and moved down the steps to grab their belongings with an easy expertise that spoke quite clearly of his time at sea.

“C’mon!” Grif said and climbed up to the weather deck once more.

Wash aided Veritas up the steps, where they were both greeted by Captain Ash.

“Captain.” Veritas said and saluted her before heading off below deck with her surgeon mates.

“Captain.” Wash repeated and saluted as well.

She nodded towards him. “Everything alright with your Guild?”

“I believe so.” Wash said, although he couldn’t help but be somewhat alarmed by her question. “I do hope none of the members have caused you any trouble yet.”

“On the contrary.” Captain Ash nodded towards Grif as he whistled past them, his hands full of supplies. “Always happy to see a fellow islander. A sailor? He climbed the ratlines fast enough for one.”

“I am afraid I do not know, ma’am.” Wash said. “But I am certain he is open to questions. We will have time to be acquainted on this journey after all.”

Captain Ash shrugged and opened her mouth, but turned back as a guffaw echoed across the weather deck. Wash immediately grimaced, certain that whatever was so entertaining it was certainly the fault of his Guildmembers.

Orion, with the bosun whistle between her teeth, snickered as she looked over the railing. Some crewmen, bosun’s mates most likely, regarded her with a look that meant that she was alone in finding whatever was on the other side of the bulwark so funny. The bosun’s mates were hoisting something in pulleys over the railing, two almost lifting as they tried to pull at their ropes.

Orion gestured for more men to come to their aid and spat out her whistle as she looked down over the railing.

“You _truly_ are cargo, ey? Screw a cot, we can put this one in a barrel.” She snorted. “A very large barrel.”

As more crew came to help with the ropes, Wash spotted the head of Caboose popping up from the bulwark with a huge smile.

“Wiiie!” He said from his position on the bosun’s chair, swinging his legs quite happily from the planks; supplies and packaged goods in his arms.

“Caboose!” Wash cried as he went forward. “That’s quite enough. Get down from there this instant, do not burden the crew with your antics.”

“Eh, they’ll live.” Orion said. “My men can use the exercise.”

The bosun’s mates turned to look at her with affronted faces. She waved it away with a snort.

Caboose came down from the bosun’s chair with a guilty look. “The lady doctor said I could do it.”

“She’ll be fixing our backs after this shit.” One of the men complained quietly, grimacing as he held the small of his back.

Wash turned to the bosun to issue a complaint, but she was already on it, whistling and snapping her fingers to the insubordinate man.

“I’ll hear no more complaining from you. We’re still moored and you’re already causing trouble. Get back to work!”

 _There’s the discipline I expected from the navy_ , Wash thought, although he eyed the whip fastened on Orion’s belt with a grim look. It wasn’t the job of a gentleman, certainly. Or a lady, in this regard. He just hoped the whip wouldn’t be used too much, although he remembered the comment Storm had made earlier about it being used quite often.

He wasn’t looking forward to the grim part naval discipline demanded. He turned away from the scene and looked to Captain Ash on the poop deck, conversing with another lieutenant of hers.

He went up the stairs to them, saluting her once more. The captain nodded towards him before she gestured to her subordinate, a quite comely, broad-shouldered man in his thirties with dark hair tied back with a red ribbon and eyes a sharp brown.

“Good, I was hoping to introduce you two. O’Riley, this is David Washington of House Washington, the…” She stopped for a second. “I haven’t actually confirmed it with you, but I have assumed that you are the Guild leader?”

Wash waited for a second to see if Church would come sprinting to them in protest. He cleared his throat. “Our official captain is, sadly, no longer with us. The work befell another member, although he does not truly have the rank.”

“An acting captain, then.” Captain Ash said, seemingly content with the answer. “If you would be so kind to invite _that member_ as well as yourself, down to my cabin for dinner tonight. I am certain my officers are curious to hear of your travels.”

“Quite.” Said the lieutenant with a crisp and proper voice. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, young Lord Washington.”

Wash shook his hand with fervor, quite glad to be in the presence of a true gentleman. After a month with the very chaotic and informal Guild, he longed for the company of educated men.

“Jack O’Riley, first lieutenant.” Said the man. “And I hope we will see you at dinner this evening. But for now, I must return to the crew for our departure. Captain-“

“Aye. Dismissed.” Captain Ash said. She stifled a yawn as he left. “I will return to my duties as well. You and your Guild can, of course, stay up here on the poop deck as we set sail. That is to say, if you’re able to grab _that one_.”

She nodded towards the tops, where a very happy Grif sat to discuss what looked like knot-tying with a sailmaker’s mate.

“I apologize.” Wash said, glowering at him. “I will make certain we will aim to be out of your way on the journey.”

“It’s almost cruel to deny a sailor the joy of climbing the rigging, so do not berate him on my account.” Captain Ash said. “Although...The route to Backwash is not nearly as perilous as to the isles, but it doesn’t mean I can have guests running up and down the mizzenmast. _If_ the crew sees an issue with it, I expect him to stay down; otherwise he may very well stay there.”

Wash quietly disagreed but nodded to her, _Grif should certainly stay down like a proper guest_ , and walked down to the quarter deck to gesture at Grif. The hunter saw him quick enough and grimaced, but climbed down with an impressive ease.

“I advise you to stay on deck or below, Grif.” Wash cautioned. “We can’t be such a bother to the Captain and the crew that we-“

“Yeah, yeah.” Grif said darkly and turned away, shaking his head.

 _Deep breaths in, deep breaths out_. Wash sighed deeply and let his hand run down his face. They were still anchored and the Guild was already causing trouble, to no surprise. He hoped they would see reason soon enough, or face the harsh discipline of the sea.

“Miss Orion, prepare to weigh anchor!” Captain Ash ordered from the stern, Orion following the command with a series of whistles from her pipe. The command echoed across the ship as the capstan turned and the heavy, dull work of heaving the anchor home began.

Wash stayed on the poop deck, as Captain Ash had instructed, and looked around the ship in search of the Guild. Perhaps they had gone below to get out of the way from the crew on deck. Wash privately prayed that wherever they had taken refuge, they’d have the common sense to not be bothersome.

Officers and lieutenants surveyed the work of the crew, issuing orders and reports that eventually reached the ears of the Captain. At last she said;

“Shift colors!”

Ensigns ran up towards the mast to change the flags. Wash looked around in the disciplined chaos with an impressed huff.

“And we’re underway.” Captain Ash said quietly as the sails seemed to grip the wind almost at her command, the vessel slowly but surely making its way out to the open waters.

 _And we’re underway,_ Wash quietly agreed, gripping the rails with a mix of anticipation and terror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I like shipterms? I blame the Temeraire series and my own pirate larping for going haywire over nautical details, though god knows I’ve probably already fucked something up. Do they shift colors after they weigh anchor? No idea. Let’s hope so.


	20. Tales of the waves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Sundays work pretty nicely as an update-day, right?

** The Quaking Sea **

** Manu Wai **

“Dinner with Niner? You and me?” Church asked as they crossed the quarterdeck to get below.

Wash bristled. “Captain Ash, Church, and you’ll do well to remember it. And Sarge will be going as well.”

The mage rolled his eyes, but refrained from any further comments until they went below deck.

They were several hours into their journey by now, the initial intense labor of getting her underway long behind them. For the Guild, it simply meant to stay out of the way of the crew as they worked around them. But the second they were out of the harbor and the orders and commands had died down a bit, Guildmembers streamed out of the hatch to view the deck, talk to the officers or hang over the railing with somewhat green faces.

Caboose was not much for the sea, apparently, and had declared it ‘ _stupid and moving; why is it moving’_ as he promptly sat down at the forecastle deck with his two hands clutching the railing. Franklin and Doc sat next to him, gently petting him or issuing small doses of coca leaves for the giant man to chew on. Grif had somewhat ignored Wash’s cautions and talked freely with the crew and stared at the ship in wonder. Wash had made him come down from the tops three times until he eventually gave up. The remaining Guild seemed to have taken to their appointed, shared cabin to unpack.

Wash had spent most of his time on the weather deck, either observing or enjoying a pleasant talk with the first lieutenant, but as dinnertime was closing in, he searched the ship for Church. The healer had, just then, popped up to the poop deck to check on Caboose, and Wash had grabbed him before he had time to disappear somewhere else.

Church didn’t seem to be as honored as Wash was when he was told about being invited to the Captain’s cabins for dinner, and he had cast a long gaze in the direction of the crew’s quarters, where parts of the crew were surely getting fed.

Wash was having none of it, and as they both walked down to their quarters, he said;

“I hope you have proper attire ready for the dinner?”

“Gods, I must’ve packed my bejeweled hessian boots in my _other_ bags.” Church said sarcastically as he passed underneath cots and around crew. “Whatever shall I do?”

Wash raised a hand to grab at Church’s shoulder, but retracted it in fear of attraction too much attention. They were passing a corner where a couple of young midshipmen sat, hunched over books and discussing their route.

“Gentlemen.” Wash said and nodded towards them, noting with gritted teeth how Church just went past them without any greetings. All of them looked up and saluted quickly as they passed.

“We are about to spend a month on this ship.” Wash said quietly as they continued to their cabin. “Make an effort to not antagonize the crew and respect the officers, if you please-“

“How am I being disrespectful?” Church argued back, with enough grace to be quiet about his protest at least. “How?!”

“Midshipmen are officers, and are to be treated as officers,” Trying his best to ignore Church’s ‘ _but they’re so fucking tiny’._ “And this behavior extends beyond you. Our… comrades aren’t exactly known to be disciplined, and it will be a hard journey for all of us if we don’t act with grace. ”

“Gods, you are a handful, fencer.” Church muttered and opened the door to their small cabin, almost smacking his head on a lamp swinging from the deckhead. “We’re not stupid, Wash. We’ll listen to the Captain and her officers. I can’t believe you think we’re so fucking dumb that you have to specify that.”

Wash made certain the door behind them was closed before he continued on, with a quiet rage; “Yet your actions speak of the opposite. If you wish to behave so unregimented and puerile on an open road where no one can see you and you can safely suffer no consequences of said behavior, then so be it. I cannot restrict you, so it seems. But under this journey, on the deck of _this_ ship; you will oblige me by, at the very least, not go out of your way to antagonize.”

Church looked at him with his mouth a thin line. “Not everyone here are as stiff as you are, Wash- _Tucker, stop laughing-_ “ he swatted at Tucker’s cot, the man inside it snickering like a child. “We’re not doing anything wrong just because we don’t act like you do. Not everyone here had the privilege of a _proper_ upbringing, y’know.”

There was an old resentment there, Wash could guess, and one that wasn’t necessarily directed at him. It thawed him slightly, and he found it in his heart to meet him somewhat halfway. “Don’t be… antagonistic, is all I’m saying.”

“You were going to say ‘ _don’t be an asshole’_ , weren’t you?” Tucker said with a very mischievous smile.

“I was most certainly not.”

“We’re rubbing off on you.” Tucker’s grin was practically from ear to ear at this point.

“You are _most certainly_ not.” Wash said, although the words rang with an uncomfortable possibility. He had _perhaps_ another word in mind at first. “Now, if you’ll please-“

“Oh, fine.” Church said with a groan. He turned around to rummage through his belongings. “I’ll play the fancy game, if it’ll get you to shut up.”

Wash supposed it was as close as he was going to get to a victory with him. “If socializing with the officers would make you uncomfortable, I can carry the conversation.”

“Oh fuck no, I’ll do you one better.” Church said as he started to change into, what Wash hoped, a more dinner-appropriate attire. “I can play along _just fine_ , fencer.” 

Wash sighed in a poor attempt to lessen the color of his face and turned to his own packing, hoping to find something clean and proper to wear for dinner. 

“So, how come it’s just you three?” Tucker said, swinging from his cot. He was nimble as a cat, despite having little sea experience, and jumped in and out of his swinging bed with ease. He had managed to swipe some herbs from Doc’s bags and chewed on them with a thoughtful face.

“Well…” Wash pondered as he tried to press the wrinkles away from his attire. “Church and Sarge serve, unofficially, as the captains of this Guild, if I understand it correctly. And since I know Captain Ash somewhat, she might feel obligated to invite me as well.”

“ _I_ was second-in-command, for the love of the King!” Tucker protested. “ _And_ acting captain when he was away in Sidewinder.”

“And we all know how well that ended.” Church said. “We come back from Sidewinder only to see _one_ fucking person still in the Guild. Nicely done, _acting captain_.”

“Eat a dick, Church.”

“You will surely be invited as well, eventually. I suspect all of the Guild will be subjected to the honor.” Although it still made Wash’s stomach churn in worry. He would perhaps not be present to rein them in at every dinner, and Captain Ash would certainly not approve of the shocking informality of some of the Guild members. She was, after all, a proper officer in His Majesty’s navy. Church’s promise to _play along_ seemed sly at best, and possibly hostile at worst.

Wash sighed and tried his best to tune the arguing Blues out. He felt entirely out of place on the ship, as the navy had a certain style completely unique to the sea, with practical shirts and pants and tightly-fitted uniforms in lieu of the longer, more flowy robes of those on land. Wash couldn’t adopt the naval fashion well, even though he looked at a white scarf, pondering whether it would work as one of those neckcloths the officers seemed to be fond of wearing.

In the end, he opted for a grey, tightly-fitted tunic with decorated sleeves and belt with a fur-lined cloak. He must’ve looked somewhat displeased with his outfit, since he heard Church snort as he dressed himself on the other side of the cabin.

“Can’t dress sea-worthy enough?” he said as he buttoned a surprisingly beautiful navy-blue jerkin before moving on to fixing the clasps of his undershirt, decorated with golden thread at the cuffs. Wash couldn’t help but take a step back in poorly concealed shock. It was somewhat jarring to see the mage dressed so fine.

“Where did you acquire those?”

“Captain Flowers. And you can stop looking surprised at any second now.” He continued with a smug smile as he then fashioned a scarf to look like a neckcloth, much like Wash had thought about doing.

“Have you been on vessels like these before?” Wash inquired, with a nod towards Church’s attire that looked, he hated to admit, much more of naval fashion than his own attempt.

“I’m just very observant, fencer.” Church said smugly, before turning and promptly walking straight into Tucker’s cot, the latter letting out an undignified squawk.

“By the mountains, you two look stupid.” Was the verdict of the rogue, who looked down at them from his cot. “Stop looking fancy, Church; it’s fucking weird.” 

“Thanks.” Church said and elbowed Tucker gently, his cot swinging back and forth. “Where’s Sarge?”

“Right here, son!” Sarge said from the other side of the door, opening it dramatically.

“Oh gods.” Wash said before he could stop himself, as the man was dressed, once again, head to toe in red. He looked more like a court jester than the leader of a Guild. Wash could’ve sworn he heard snickering from the crew quarters behind him, but as Wash went to look; the men seemed terribly busy working.

“Very well, then.” Wash said and nodded towards Church, who gently sighed and shoved his dark hair back.

“Do not forget what I just said,” Wash said calmly, trying to ignore Church’s gaze, a look that so clearly meant ‘ _are you fucking kidding me?!’_ in that brass, unfriendly tone the healer had become known for. “We will act with conduct, and start this journey as proper gentlemen of a Guild representing-“

“I said I’ll play along, fencer.” Church cut him off with a wave. “I can be real fucking charming when I want to.”

Wash regarded him with much doubt, and his sentence carried more sarcasm than was perhaps proper, “I see.”

The captain, her three lieutenants and the surgeon were already present at the table as the three of them were let in to the cabin. If Sarge’s attire seemed comical to them, they hid it well, although Wash saw Storm raise his eyebrows ever so slightly with a minutely amused expression. Captain Ash nodded to them as they were seated, seemingly unperturbed.

Wash moved to bow and greet them, but Church was on it immediately.

“Captain, officers, Dr. Veritas!” He said, looking to them all and bowing oddly perfect. “Thank you very much for this invitation. Allow me to present my fellow Guild leader; this here is Sarge, representing our Reds. And of course, I believe our newest addition has already made himself known to some of you. David Washington-“ Church turned to him with an unnervingly polite smile. “-of Whitemount.”

 _And who are you?_ Wash tried to blink his bewilderment away.

“I’m happy you could join us.” Captain Ash said politely. “Please, take a seat.”

A woman, brunette with a grim face, nodded towards them. “I’m afraid I made myself sparse during the preparations, but I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Second Lieutenant Gloria Warlow, at your service.”

“At yours, ma’am.” Church said as he sat down next to the surgeon.

Sarge took a seat with a quiet nod, which let Wash to scramble for the last one somewhat clumsily. He grimaced privately and damned the mage with a quiet vehemence for distracting him so.

“I must admit I am quite intrigued by this quest of yours, if you will permit to tell us of it.” O’Riley said with genuine interest, but he still held himself proper. Both Storm and Veritas leaned forward slightly, the first even leaning on his elbows to come closer; which made O’Riley’s lip twitch.

“I’m afraid there is little we can tell you, national quests such as these are often classified.” Church responded quickly. “However, we can certainly show you the Delta’s signature and blessings. It marks the very bottom of our papers; we’ve showed it to others before, to press for urgency in some matters.”

“Certainly urgent.” O’Riley said. “A quest from the heir himself, what an honor. But I cannot press you to show me the signature for mere entertainment, I feel somewhat ashamed for asking.”

“Not at all. We can certainly regale you gentlemen with some parts of our journey, it has been quite an adventure so far.” Church said kindly, as Wash leaned back slightly to regard the mage with even more bewilderment. Then he felt a kick against his shin, Church’s no doubt, and tried his best to hide his features.

Dinner was served, a hearty stew with freshly baked bread, partnered with a red wine; one with an alcoholic content high enough to make Wash regret downing it rather fast.

“Let’s see,” Captain Ash said. “I remember you being a _fencer_ , correct? A Guild-certified fencer?”

Wash nodded. “Correct, ma’am.”

“So, what are your ranks, then?”

O’Riley furrowed his brow at his Captain, mouthing something. It looked more like a gentle reprimand than a comment to a superior officer, but Captain Ash seemed to only roll her eyes at it, before stopping herself as O’Riley, very quietly said “ _Captain, please. We are in the presence of gentlemen.”_

“Forgive me,” Captain Ash said as she cleared her throat and sat up straighter. “Let me _rephrase_ that; I know of Young Lord Washington’s rank, but may I ask what yours are?”

“Healer.” Church said before Captain Ash had time to close her mouth even. He eyed Wash with a very careful look. “I’m the defensive mage… ma’am.”

“I’m a knight, myself.” Sarge said, chest bursting with pride. “Somebody’s gotta keep those damn dirty Blues in check.”

Silence hit for a few seconds. Wash grimaced and looked towards the Captain and her officers. Storm and Veritas shared an amused look while O’Riley seemed _most_ affronted. Then Captain Ash snorted a laugh, and the comment was blessed, and thus the conversation could continue.

Wash took a deep breath. He wasn’t a very religious man, but in that particular moment he prayed to the Mother of the Sky that their sea voyage would be a quick affair.

****************

“You know what?” Grif said as he tried to sit down next to Simmons. “I’m not jealousss at all!”

“Uh-huh.”

“No, seriously!” Grif argued as he pointed at Simmons with a bottle of grog-wherever the hell he got one of those. “I don’t _want_ to sit up in the Captain’s cabin and dine with Sarge and… the other dudes. No, thank you. This, _this_ , is where I belong!”

A cheer went up from the crew surrounding them in the gunroom.

Grif’s former sailing background had apparently made him fast friends with some of the mates, and as Wash, Sarge and Church were invited up to the captain’s cabin for dinner, Grif popped in to tell them to join him and the mates in the gunroom for grog and tales.

It was a merry affair, Simmons had to admit, but he was terribly unused to the rough, brawly attitude displayed there. He was used to Grif, by now, but to be surrounded by twenty people with the same idea of fun was slightly jarring. Caboose and Doc were not agreeing with the waves, and both of them laid sprawled out on the floor, groaning. Donut had decided to call it an evening and hide in their cabin, somewhat green in the face himself. Tucker on the other hand had, naturally, sniffed out the occasion and came to join them.

A merry song was interrupted at first as the bosun popped down from the hatch, but she only waved at them.

“You’re not on duty, relax.”

And thus; they continued with their singing and storytelling, Orion leaning against a cot with a mildly amused expression.

“A tale, little islander!” A sailor cried, his mug high up in the air, sloshing grog down the necks of those unfortunate enough to sit next to him. “Come, stand!”

Three arm’s mates slammed their palms against the wood repeatedly.

“Oh but I am but a man of the sea, my stories you’ve heard a thousand times-“ Grif enunciated the words heavily, and as he tried to curtsy his head smacked against the back of Simmons’s neck.

“Ow! Grif you dolt-“

“-But this guy here.” Grif placed his arm on thin air, missing his lover’s shoulder by a few steps. He recovered, coughed and tried again. The crew laughed. “-This guy is _from_ the Ghost Cliffs!”

“Truly?” said the third arm’s mate in disbelief. He leaned forward. “Share a horror with us. Come, stand.”

“Uh… I-I’m not really good with public speaking…” Simmons muttered, glaring daggers at Grif, who shot finger guns in his directions and winked.

“Stand!” The other sailors joined in.

Simmons turned to his Guild mates for aid, but none came to help. Caboose and Doc were too preoccupied clinging to the rocking floor with dizzy eyes. Tucker seemed determined to hear some stories as well.

Simmons stared at the floor for a second. He saw Grif’s hand cupping his grog in the corner of his eyes. A small idea came to mind, and a mischievous smile painted his lips.

“I have a story.” He said.

“Stand!” The crew said, palms smacking against the table.

“It’s about when I met one of the Dripfolk- “

Immediately the crew turned silent, horror across their eyes, palms hovering above the table. The bosun turned around, as if she could see a Dripfolk hiding behind the casks and ropes and canons. The rest of the Guild mates looked somewhat puzzled, at least those who weren’t stuck to the floor. Grif’s eyes narrowed and his mouth a hard line. He knew perfectly well that sailors weren’t too fond of stories from the sea, and that was exactly why Simmons had mentioned it. One of the sailors spat over his own shoulder, a line of drool still hanging on his pudgy, red face.

“Not of those, lad.” He said, the line of drool disturbingly distracting. “I’ll have no talk of sirens or Dripfolk or krakens or any of the horror of the sea. We’re far from land, and we’re deep in the territory of monsters.”

“Then I guess I have nothing.” Simmons shrugged and he turned to Grif. He winked back and tried to finger gun in the same fashion he had done. It failed horrendously, a sudden rock of the ocean making him point his finger in his eye. He swore and pressed his hand to it.

“What’s Dripfolk?” Tucker’s eyebrows furrowed. “I know sirens-“

“Of course, you do, you lecher.” Doc whined from the floor.

“Hey, Doc? Soggy bread – think of soggy bread, yeah? Or hey, maybe chowder with greasy fat-“

Doc retched. “Stop, for the love of the gods.”

“Yeah, who’s your boss, bitch.” Tucker turned back to the crew. “What’s a Dripfolk?”

Most of the mates turned to Orion for permission. She smacker her tongue, and the pudgy one with the line of drool running from his mouth turned to them.

“You know of sirens, yeah? Sea witches, hair long and filled with seaweed, their eyes gleaming like the sea-“

“AND THEY HAVE GREAT TITS!” Shouted one of the men Simmons previously thought had passed out.

They cheered at that, some sailors raised their drinks and drank to the existence of great tits. Tucker joined in, saying “Hear hear”.

“Aye, and they’ll get ya. They look good, see. Sirens can sing ships to ruin.” The red-faced man had finally managed to notice the drool and had wiped it off. “-Queens of the sea, ya see. They lead beneath the surface, with their great voices and their breasts.”

 _I will never understand straight men and their obsession with bosoms_ , Simmons thought to himself.

“-But see, royalty need their loyal followers. I’m sure you Potentians know of that. You even swear in the name of your king. Like the whole lotta you are just one huge family, bowing down to your precious daddy.”

“Careful now.” Said Orion coolly. “They paid their weight in gold. Don’t insult our cargo.”

“Cargo?” Simmons shrieked, undignified.

“I’m not insulting em, ma’am. Just telling honest observations.” He swigged his drink. “Right…. Followers, right. So these sirens, yeah? Queens of the ocean and all that bull. They need followers, slaves, people who pick up the shit they take. That’s them.” He leaned in close to Tucker for dramatic effect. Simmons snickered as Tucker scrunched his nose, the man’s breath apparently not that inviting.

“Dripfolk. Scalefeet. Whatever you like to call ‘em. Tales tell that they’re slaves who, upon being taken across the sea, opt to jump into the sea instead of being sold off on lands. Then the sirens take them in, give them the kiss of the ocean so that they can breathe under water. They follow their master’s biddings. They live in the ocean, see, together with the sirens. But they still look like humans. No fins, no scales, no nothing-“

“But they swim like they have fins. I saw one once, swimming with orcas. Quick little fuckers, no human can swim that fast.” Another sailor joined the story. Some of the powder monkeys, most of them young boys, whispered amongst themselves frantically with thinly veiled terror.

“I like how he told you to _not_ talk about Dripfolk and then immediately followed it by talking about Dripfolk.” Grif muttered into his drink. Simmons shot him a small smile.

“-And they have teeth.”

“A rare sight for sailors, I take it?”

Tucker’s sarcastic tone didn’t sit well with the pudgy man.

“Teeth like sharks, little man.” He said aggressively. “They open their mouth and they can tear your arm clean off with one chomp! They scale ships on occasion to give messages from their queens. It’s a bad omen. If a Dripfolk jumps on your ship, you know sirens are near. And you know you’re in their territory. And if the Dripfolk don’t rip your throat out with their teeth, they might sing you to the darks instead.”

The bosun shuddered. “Creepy fuckers too. They _can_ sing, but not nearly as transfixing as their queens.”

The pudgy man looked back with a laugh. “I say that islander Dripfolk we came across got you transfixed, alright. All tan and long, dark brown hair. Just your type, ey? Never knew you liked the cunt until then-“

Orion slapped her hand across the back of the man’s neck. The rest of the sailors hitched a breath, apparently all agreed that the pudgy sailor had taken it a step too far.

“To the weather deck with you.” She seethed. “I’m sure someone else will be happy you volunteered to take their shift.”

The pudgy man looked down, caressing his aching head. “Aye, ma’am.”

The atmosphere took a turn for the grim after that. The silence was deafening as the pudgy sailor stood up to waddle up to the deck. Tucker seemed eager to continue the subject of the long-haired Dripfolk with the great bosom, but Grif smacked his foot against his back when he opened his mouth. Tucker glared, but Grif scowled back. In the end, they settled for silence.

Simmons regretted bringing it up. He turned to Grif to mouth an apology, and the islander sighed and gave him a small smile. Then the former sailor turned to his fellow seafarers.

“All this talk of tits makes me want to sing. Who’ll lead a shanty with me?”

The sailors said nothing until Orion snorted a laugh, then they dared to laugh with her.

“Bosun, let’s hear your voice, ey? Give us a taste of some pure female vocal chords!” cried the sailmaker.

“I think your best bet is that nobleman dining with the Captain if you want pure tunes. I hear Potentian lords and ladies are taught to sing and dance while still nursing.”

“Pity he’s not here then.” Said a powder monkey quietly.

“Pity indeed. Boys, give me a tune!”

And just like that, a semblance of the good-natured atmosphere was back. Simmons smiled and leaned back against a pole as Grif and the bosun started the shanty together, joined by parts of the crew soon enough.

His eyes were glued to his precious islander lover, whose eyes that usually had a dull greyish blue shone lapis lazuli and his voice that usually broke on occasion came out pleasant and raspy. A small shiver hit Simmons’s spine and he tried to hide it by submerging most of his reddened face into his elbows. Tucker, the man who could sniff out attraction as if it was pure metals, turned to the fire mage with a crooked smile.

“Shut up.” Simmons muttered and hid his face in his sleeves, eyes not leaving Grif as the sailors continued their song.

 _Gods I love you_.


	21. One step forward, two steps backwards

”If you don’t mind me asking-“ Wash said as he walked to the stern of the poop deck, where Church stood to watch the waves. “Where did you learn that sort of language?”

The mage jumped and cursed, before returning to gripping the railing. “Hells, fencer; can’t a man be drunk in peace?”

“Ah, my apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Wash had to very carefully put his hand out in order to ascertain that it would grip the railing. He had himself indulged a little bit too much of the fine wine served at dinner. It would appear that sailors, both crew and officers, could drink most people under the table. “Shall I leave you to your… ocean-observing?” _That’s not a proper word, David_.

Church snorted and he turned to him. “Had a bit too much to drink yourself, I see.”

Wash loathed to admit it to the mage usually, but there was surprisingly little vehemence in Church’s tone. “I might have misjudged the wine a bit, yes.”

“Misery loves company, then.” Church returned to look at the ocean.

A fairly comfortable silence hit them, disturbed only by the incessant buzzing Wash heard in his ears; a constant reminder that he had indulged a bit too much in the fine liquor.

“I will ask you again, Church.” He said calmly, and turned to lean back against the railing. The wind hit at him quite cruelly, and he shielded himself a bit with his cloak. “Where did you learn that sort of language? You don’t strike me as nobility, if you’ll allow me to be crass.”

To his surprise, Church laughed. It was a short, quick laugh that he quickly hid with a cough, but it was there alright. “Captain Flowers, again. He dragged me around pretty much everywhere he went.”

“I see. I will leave it there, then.” Wash thanked his somewhat slurred brain for being able to remember that their Captain had, in fact, died quite gruesomely in Sidewinder, and that the Guild seemed to have a hard time letting it go. With a little alcohol in the blood, perhaps those feelings would rise to the surface. “Are you not cold?”

Church raised his eyebrow at him before looking at his own clothes; still dressed in his dinner attire, with little to shield him from the wind. “No. It’s a mage thing. Well… A Cryomancer thing.”

“Ah.” Wash said. A small part of him grimaced slightly at it, thinking it odd that mages were seemingly outside the boundaries of normal, human conditions. But he silenced that part, which sounded suspiciously much like his own father, with a shook of his head. “I noticed you said that you were a healer, and not…”

He let the sentence trail off.

“Yeah, well. Battle mages-“ Church said, very quietly. “-Are not all that popular on Potentian soil. And on a naval warship? A Potentian warship? These guys have probably shuttled some of the soldiers down to Scania for the war, they’re not gonna be very friendly. I might get tossed out into the fucking ocean, they’ll think I’m a Scanian spy or some bullshit like that.”

Wash decided not to comment on that. He was not certain himself of everyone’s allegiance. It was a hard habit to get rid of, and frankly the Guild had done little to instill trust.

“Your staff.” Wash tried to remember what it looked like. “Is it a telltale Battle mage staff? Should we-“

“Already hidden it. But yeah, it’s pretty fucking special. It has a singing tree core, y’know; I picked it out myself. And the outside has all the different Scanian runes carved into it, with an alloy that’s-“ He stopped, ears going slightly red. “Never mind. Yeah, it’s special.”

Wash nodded, understanding very little of what Church had been talking about.

They left it there, and eventually Wash decided to head for bed. Sadly, he only got as far as the gunroom before he stopped abruptly at the sound of voices.

“Ey, fencer. Fencer. Fencer. Hey, fencer. Feeeeeeeencer.” It was one of the younger boys, a powder monkey, probably, who popped up next to him and poked him. He was wiry and quite tanned, with dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. It was disturbing the smell the booze on such a young child, but Wash supposed he couldn’t argue with the rewards of grog on the sea… but he’d certainly discuss it with people on land.

“That is not my name, and you’ll do well to remember it, young man.” Wash said sharply.

“Ah yes, that’s our Wash.” Said a groggy voice from a table hidden behind some cots. The lamp swinging from the deckhead had dimmed slightly, and Wash could just barely see the form of Grif and Tucker there. Grif was still sitting, but Tucker seemed to have fallen asleep on the table.

“Pardon?”

“Always ready to discipline.” Grif yawned and stretched. “Fuckin’ hell, what time is it? I don’t wanna get up to the weather deck to ask the shift.”

“It is late.” Wash reprimanded, and he turned to look at the powder monkey still grinning at him, before he turned back. “So, grab our Guild member there and head to bed, if you please.”

“But I don’t… please.” Grif grimaced as his sentence didn’t carry the punch he was hoping for.

Tucker snorted at that, and a mumble that sounded suspiciously like ‘ _Poor Simmons then’_ emerged from the table. Wash could hear the young man next to him giggle drunkenly.

“Behold; he lives.” Grif said and stood up somewhat slowly. “Your problem now!”

Wash bristled. “Pardon?”

Grif waved him away before he stumbled off to their cabin. The powder monkey turned to Wash, grinning;

“I can help you carry him, y’know. For a prize.”

“Or you’d do it out of naval duty, young man.” Wash responded curtly. “We are guests on your ship, and I would appreciate-

“The bosun called you ‘cargo’.”

Wash stopped, affronted at the interruption and at the insult. “What?”

“Yeah.” The young boy said, balancing on the balls of his bare feet. “She said to not insult you, because you are cargo and that you paid quite a heavy prize to be cargo.”

Wash’s brow furrowed.

“I’m –“ The young boy said something quite impossible to pronounce, his hand reached out in a proper greeting.

“Pardon?”

“I’m-“ The boy said, quite annoyed. It definitely started with an I. or an E. Aishe, Eyes, Ayce?

“Ice?” Wash tried.

“Sure.” The boy sighed, somewhat defeated. But he perked up immediately. “So, if I help you carry that guy over there-“

Wash opened his mouth to argue, but a hand emerged from one of the cots and he found himself jumping back with an alarmed huff. The hand swatted Ice, grasping the back of his shirt.

“Will you keep it down, kiddo?” said Fingal, more tired than angry, as his head popped up from the cot. “Get some sleep or you’ll regret it in the morning. The Captain says we’re to do some training.”

Ice grimaced slightly and his shoulders slumped. “Fine.” He muttered and stalked off somewhere, disappearing into the darkness.

Wash turned to nod his thanks to the gunner, but the man had already fallen asleep. 

_And on the subject of sleeping men_ , Wash turned to the snoring Tucker with a sigh.

“Wait, where, what-?” Tucker muttered when Wash grabbed him, hoisting him up and placing his arm around him, grasping it tightly. “I’m awake.”

“Of course, you are.” Wash said with little humor. “So, if you’re awake, you can walk to the cot yourself.”

“Nngh.” Tucker responded with a small grimace.

Wash helped him into the cabin, where he was met with the roars of Caboose’s snores. The giant man had taken his cot down and used it as a blanket instead, seemingly very comfortable on the floor. Three cots were still unoccupied; Tucker’s, Church’s and Wash’s own.

“Up you go.” Wash whispered as he stood in front of Tucker’s. Tucker’s only response was to look at his cot with an affronted face.

“Meh.” He said and turned his head, resting it on his own shoulder.

“Mother of the Sky; no. I hope you are not expecting me to hold you here until morning.” Wash sputtered, but Tucker only shrugged.

 _This will not do_. Wash bit back an annoyed groan before he leaned down to hook his arms underneath Tucker’s knees and hoisted him up into his arms. Tucker yelped and scrambled for something to grab onto, now suddenly _very_ awake, which in the end meant Wash had the smaller man’s hands looped around his neck. Tucker looked up at him for a second, and Wash was struck with how he must’ve used a little bit _too_ much of his strength to hoist him up as his face was _very_ close to his own. Close enough for him to stare at the three little dots underneath Tucker’s eyes again and _definitely_ close enough to smell the booze on his breath.

“Enough of this.” Wash said fiercely, although his voice didn’t sound as certain as he had hoped. “Grab your cot.”

“Uh.” Tucker said, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah, ok. Are you the one who’s stupidly strong or do I need to start lifting weights?”

“Freelancers are instructed to stay in top shape.” Wash said as he tried to figure out how he was going to deposit the smaller Guild member into his cot. “But you are quite light.”

 _And quite small_ , Wash added privately as he felt Tucker’s long fingers radiate warmth from their position, placed quite gingerly around his neck.

“Grab onto your cot.” He repeated. Tucker blinked and turned around to grasp at it, heaving himself into it. It wasn’t very graceful, and Wash had to bite back both an annoyed sigh and a small chuckle. When Tucker was safely deposited in his cot, Wash turned to his own.

He was lulled into sleep by the waves eventually.

 _….And_ then immediately woken up by the sound of a whistle.

He sat up in his bed before he realized that it was not a bed and, in fact, a cot and almost fell down immediately. Sunlight shone through the poorly latched door, and he tried his best to blink his drowsiness away.

“What’s going on?” Simmons yawned.

Grif poked his head out from his cot, listening to the whistled command. Then he groaned. “Gunnery practice. Not gonna get any _fucking_ sleep, now.”

“Your own fault for staying up.” Simmons said. Grif tried to kick him but only swung around like an angry cocoon.

“Everyone here?” Wash said, just remembering that another one of their Guild members was still out when he himself had gone to bed.

“Right here.” Church said from the floor, getting himself dressed. He kicked at Caboose gently. “Caboose, get your ass up.”

“Let him sleep, please.” Donut popped up from his cot, trying to fix his locks. “He’s not much for the ocean, it took him a while to fall asleep.”

“Heh, you didn’t look so good yourself last night.” Grif snorted, still determined to sleep away.

“Oh?” Wash turned to the Seer. “Are you alright, Donut?”

It didn’t bring him the reaction he thought it would. Instead of answering his question, the Seer only stared at him, before squealing quite happily.

“You called me _Donut_!”

 _Oh gods, I actually did_. “A-apologies, Seer Franklin.” He stammered. “I have not had time to wake up yet.”

Franklin’s shoulder slumped slightly. “Oh, I wish I hadn’t said anything. I don’t mind you calling me that!”

“It will not do.” Wash responded curtly as he swung himself free of his cot. He cleared his throat. “I aim to uphold the correct respect the Seers deserved. As His Majesty has decreed.”

“To the happiness of no one in this room.” Church muttered.

“Oh, fuck no, not this again.” Tucker groaned and closed the flaps around himself. “Let me know when you’re done arguing.”

Wash looked between the cocoons the whole Guild seemed to have turned themselves into, besides Caboose sleeping on the floor. He returned to Church. “Excuse me?”

“If Donut wants you to use his nickname, I don’t see why you shouldn’t.” Church said. “That’s all. And you guys don’t need to fucking hide in your beds!”

“And _you_ don’t need to argue absolutely everything, either!” Simmons pointed out from his safe haven inside the cot. Church glared at it.

“I know your group… lacks discipline and proper conduct at times.” Wash said, reining in more fitting words that would no doubt cause quite the ruckus. “But all Guilds report to the Grand Board, which in turn reports to the King. You would not be able to make a living were it not a decree by His Majesty. Proper respect should and _will_ be given to the laws. And those laws says-“

“No one’s here to enforce those laws, so just… chill a little bit with that, alright? I promise you, the _oh so great_ Leonard I isn’t going to pop up behind a fucking barrel and give you shit for not calling Donut _Seer Franklin_ all the time.”

Wash’s mouth fell open just as Church grimaced and muttered a _‘wait, no, fuck’_. “The nerve! If you insist on not following the conduct of the Seers, then it will be on your head. But I will _not_ have you disrespect His Majesty on his own ship!”

“Because I used his name?!” Church groaned, arms out. “Seriously?!”

“Yeah, continue to talk shit about the King in front of a Freelancer; _The royal fucking guard._ ” Tucker popped out of his cot to swat Church on the head. “You’re a goddamn genius, Church.”

“I do sincerely hope _this_ is not something you do often, Church.” Wash said, lividly. He found himself almost grasping at his belt by pure habit, looking for his sword. The very thought of the Guild, the very Guild he had supposedly joined, stooping so low as to talk about their King in such a way. It was almost enough for Wash to issue a duel, if not outright order the Captain to put him in chains.

Church took a step back, but he continued to glare at him. “I’m not ‘talking shit about the King’! This is ridiculous; it’s just a _name_!”

“And not a name for simple _peasants_ to abuse!” Wash said before he could stop himself. He sounded eerily similar to his own father, and he grimaced privately. He could see Church grind his teeth, his eyes turning dark.

“You’re not going to be let into the ranks again just because you keep licking his boots, you know.” He said icily, and Wash felt the words like a punch to the gut.

“Church.” Seer Franklin said as he climbed down from the cot. “That’s too far!”

“I know your Freelancers are all _so loyal_ to the royal family and all,” Church continued, even as the Seer grabbed at his sleeve. “But has it ever occurred to you to think for yourself, and not just echo whatever your dad tells you to? T _rust me;_ the King is definitely not worthy of that loyalty-“

“Dude.” Now Tucker joined to stare at the mage. “You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

“Enough _!_ ” Wash growled as he grabbed his sheathed sword from his belongings. “You will withdraw your remark, or so help me-“

His words were interrupted by the roar of a broadside of cannons firing. Caboose finally woke up, and Doc fell down from his own cot, small balls of cotton falling out of his ears.

“What’s happening?” The herbalist cried, first trying to see out towards the gunroom where they could hear yells and orders, before turning to Wash and Church. “Is there a battle?”

Church and Wash looked at each other, before they both turned to the door. As Church opened it and stood to the side, Wash came out with his sheathed sword in hand, the anger now looking for a new target.

The gunroom was filled with crew and officers, the young midshipmen ordering around their respective guncrew. The Captain peered down from her position up on the stairs, looking out through one of the gun ports.

Wash looked around to see if he could see an enemy on the waters as the cannons were pulled back for another round.

The first lieutenant, O’Riley, stood closest to them, watching the guncrews with a grave face.

Wash kept quiet and turned to Church, who in turn looked back to Grif; mouthing something. Then Church groaned and grabbed Wash’s shoulder.

Wash shook him off, but paled slightly when the fire ceased and the Captain cried,

“What’s the time?”

“Two minutes and ten seconds, Captain.” The second lieutenant, Warlow said.

“Gunnery practice.” Grif called from the cabin. “I _told_ you.”

 _So, he did_. Wash felt his face turn slightly red, and tried to discreetly put his sword back in the cabin. As he turned, he heard a familiar, young voice say;

“Why are you naked?”

Wash turned to see the powder monkey, Ice, his white grin standing out quite clearly against the black powder smeared on his face. O’Riley turned around and blanched slightly when he caught sight of Wash who-even though the young powder monkey had called it such- was most definitely _not_ naked. But he was not properly dressed either, only in a simple white cotton shirt over his breeches.

“Mr. O’Riley!” Captain Ash called sharply. “Why the he- If you’ll please explain to me why our guests were not informed of this!”

“My most sincere apologies, young Lord Washington.” O’Riley said wretchedly. “One of our ensigns were supposed to tell you about our practice. We are not engaged in battle, please do tell your men such.”

“Certainly.” Wash stammered slightly, trying to will the flush of his face to go down as he closed the door. He turned back to the Guild, most of them were now out of their beds and somewhat dressed. He looked at his sheathed sword, then back at Church.

“We will speak again of this, I assure you.” He warned. “And I expect an apology for your behavior.”

“Prepare to be sorely disappointed.” Church said sharply before he cried out in pain as Tucker hit him over the head, apparently with much force.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

It would’ve been somewhat comical to see the much shorter man berate the tall mage if Wash was not still seeing red from their previous argument. Church removed his hand from his head, blood coming away from his wound.

“Did you seriously-?”

“Oh what, the _rebel mage extraordinaire_ got scared over a little bit of blood? You’re gonna lose your goddamn head for this if you keep this up, _then_ we’ll talk blood!” Tucker turned around and grabbed his cloak, all while muttering something Wash couldn’t quite decipher. He recalled, even though it was quite a long time ago now, that Tucker had previously muttered something in a language he didn’t quite understand.

Thanks to York’s family’s dual citizenship, he had caught on enough Marque words to recognize the melody of the Demec du Marque language, and neither Nochkit nor the Egeniellan Isles spoke much of their ancient language. But he did recognize the sharp consonants of the Scanian language, as it was still used for spells on occasion. But Tucker was _not_ a mage-

 _It can also be another language with similar pronunciation_ , Wash tried to calm himself down, his mind already spitting out theories. _Enough of this_.

He tried to channel his anger into something else, and ended up putting his attire on with much more vehemence than it demanded; as annoying as it sometimes was to button his vest and cloak. He exited the cabin before anyone else, and definitely noticed the loud bang of the door, and the click of the latch seemed almost to echo.

Furious whispers emerged from the room, and Wash find himself caught between the urge to listen in to the potential treacherous talk and trying to redeem his honorable behavior by being gentlemanly enough to _not_ eavesdrop.

He stood there, mentally arguing morality, as Captain Ash drew near. He turned and touched his forehead as the lieutenants often did with their hats to issue their salute.

“Captain!” He said.

“I _am_ sorry about that, Washington.” She said with a gentle sigh. “My ensigns will hear of this. An unpleasant way of waking up.”

“Grif recognized the whistle actually.” Wash said in an attempt to lessen the mistake. “He told us as you and your crew were probably preparing. It was merely a natural reaction, nothing more. I am a soldier at heart, and often rises to the sound of battle regardless.”

“Still, I am sorry.” Captain Ash said, shaking her head. “But I am here to... uh... commend your crew for your… Red leader? He was up with us immediately, pretty interested in our proceedings.”

Wash blanched slightly. He had not noticed Sarge’s absence in their cabin.

“Don’t apologize.” Captain Ash said with a small hint of annoyance in her tone. “If I may be crass; you do it way too often. I imagine it’s quite a blow to the morale of your Guild, to have you apologize for their every action.”

Wash felt himself redden at the scolding. He felt like he was back in Avalanche for a second, enduring a lecture from his mother. “We have our differences.”

“I can see that.” She said, but the annoyed tone was gone. She put her hand on his shoulder, a terribly informal move for a Captain, and it took Wash back quite a bit. “You’ll do well to relax a bit, Wash. It must be tiring to stand so straight at all times, with that stick up your ass and all.”

Wash’s mouth fell open once more, staring at the Captain. She only smiled and turned back, leaving Wash to stand frozen as he repeated her words in his mind.

 _Surely, a captain of the Royal Navy would not- no, I must’ve heard it wrong_ … Except he most likely didn’t. _Captain Ash is a proper officer_ except that parts of her crew seemed terribly informal _and they surely act with conduct at all times, as it is expected of them_.

Wash felt terribly alone for a second, and he stood still for quite a while, staring at the ironside of a cannon.

 _It seems I am able to alienate all those around me_ … _I miss York_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wash is not the suspicious kind. Not at all. He trusts his fellow Guild members completely.
> 
> So I’m really hammering in how loyal the Freelancers usually are to the King. The whole culture pretty much worships (or are at least supposed to worship) the Royal Family as their gods, as you might’ve been able to tell since they even curse ‘For the love of the King’ in lieu of our own ‘For the love of God’ etc. Am I being painfully obvious about that? Probably.


	22. Lord Julien uses ‘language barrier’. It’s super ineffective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working long morningshifts all weekend broke my brain, unfortunately. I woke up this morning like "It's sunday, right? I have to post a chapter-no wait."  
> Sorry <3

** Capitol of Potentia, Kingslight **

** The Meteor Fortress Keep **

****

_”Astari for your thoughts?”_

_”Stop.”_

_”I’m serious, you look like you need to talk to someone.”_

_“I’m just… tense, York. I don’t know how I should feel about this.”_

_“Yeah… I feel ya.”_

_York let his eyes rest on her hair, her hand twisting a lock of it as she stared out through the window. He stepped closer gently, as one would approach a spooked animal, and let his chin rest upon her head. She jolted as he put his arms around her, put relaxed into his hold._

_“Are you all right?” York said quietly._

_“I don’t know. Nerves, I suppose. I can’t help but feel like something’s gonna go wrong.”_

_“It’ll be fine.” York said, both for her comfort and his own. Perhaps if he said it out loud enough times he’d actually believe it. “It’s just the execution of a former prince of Potentia, what could poooossibly go wrong?”_

_She elbowed him in the chest non-too-gently. She was quite strong. As York coughed a bit, she turned her light-green eyes towards him with her brow furrowed in worry._

_“I’m fine.” York lied and rubbed the spot where she had hit him. “I’m fine.”_

_She sighed and let her head rest on his shoulder. He embraced her again, fighting the urge to nuzzle her hair._

_“We’ll be fine.” York said._

The sound of a couple of books falling to the floor woke him with a start. York stood up, hands on his sword and looked around, going through his list of priorities.

 _Where is Dee?_ There. _Is he hurt?_ No. _Where is the aggressor?_

He turned around to face the very scared and very red-faced Prince Emiyn, his hands up in the air to surrender.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

“Gods,” York sighed in relief and laughed. He let go of his sword and helped the Prince assemble the books he had apparently dropped on the floor. “You are quite the sneak, Eta.”

“No, it was merely you who had fallen asleep at your post again.” Dee said calmly, turning a page demonstratively.

York grimaced towards Eta. “I would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t tell Wyoming of this, my prince. He’s always looking for an opportunity to have me expunged!”

Eta shook his head wildly. “No, no, no; I wouldn’t dream of it, York.”

“Sarcasm.” Dee commented from behind his many books displayed on the table in front of him. Eta turned red again and said, very quietly;

“Oh, of course.”

York looked between the two brothers, as Eta twisted to look at Dee, and then back again to York.

 _“He’s afraid of you._ ” Dee said, only it took a few seconds for York to register it as the prince had said it in the Marque language.

“Ah.” York responded and looked around somewhat awkwardly for a place to sit before he sat on the other end of the table, still next to Dee but hopefully far enough away so that the young prince felt safer.

“I was actually just wondering if you’ve seen Irving… or Evan, I suppose.”

“Neither of them, I am afraid.” Dee said, his eyes still glued to the books. “Has father roped you into looking for him again? You are not Evan's manservant.”

“I know, I know.” Eta said, shaking his head. “And if you can convince Irving to not treat Evan’s continuous disappearance as an opportunity to practice tracking, I would be most obliged. Particularly since we have lessons… now, actually.”

The young prince grimaced slightly, but he seemed more relaxed now that York was somewhat further away. York wasn’t as much insulted as slightly bothered, he knew he had a somewhat more savage appearance - _thank you, eyepatch_ \- but he didn’t think himself as threatening in anyway. At least not towards the princes. He happened to be quite fond of them.

York looked up as he heard the telltale noise of the Freelancer armor, a very peculiar detail he had picked up after years of service, and he had to bite back a groan as the pure-white ensemble came into view. In his peripheral, he saw Dee’s eyes look up and narrow slightly before closed his book with a sigh.

“Wyoming.” Dee said in a very neutral greeting.

 _Dickhead_ , York mimicked Dee’s tone privately.

“Your Highnesses.” Wyoming bowed to the princes and nodded quickly to York. “I am here on behalf of your teacher. It would appear it is time for your lessons, the Eta.”

“It is… yes.” Eta said. “But I couldn’t find my brother, so I… thought he had perhaps gone to the library to hide.”

York would personally count the royal library as the _last_ place the Iota could be found.

“I see.” Wyoming said. He didn’t look too happy to be saddled with the responsibilities of chasing the twins around, and so of course York couldn’t help but smile at his misery. “Then I’ll will go look for him. In the meantime, my prince, may I escort you to your lessons?”

“I will find my way, but thank you.” Eta said. “Please focus on finding Irving instead. That usually takes a while.”

Wyoming bowed and turned on his heel, walking away. It was an encounter blessedly free from any of Wyoming’s sickly-sweet reprimands, and York was quite happy for it. Eta sighed gently and Dee opened his book again, saying;

“You can come out now.”

York’s brow furrowed but he looked up as he heard a noise at the top of a bookshelf.

“Can we talk about how he looks _exactly_ like his sister?” Iota said from his position on the bookshelf. “Like _exactly_ like his sister. It’s pretty weird.”

“Irving!” Eta said, affronted. “I’ve been looking for you for the better part of an hour!”

“Sure have.” Iota laughed, climbing down.

“Watch the books, Irving.” Dee said calmly.

“Yes, of course, Derek.” Iota said, trying his best to imitate his older brother’s tone. He dusted himself off. “Man, someone should tell the servants that the top of the shelves are like, _really_ , fucking dusty.”

“They aren’t exactly meant for climbing on.” Eta reprimanded, to which his twin turned to him in mock-amazement.

“No shit?!”

“Not to interrupt-“ York laughed gently and turned to look at the twins. “But don’t you boys have lessons to go so?”

“Over my dead body.” Iota complained. “We _just_ got back from Burning Mounds, and now we have to sit and listen to the history of that fucking realm for like, _hours_.”

“It is quite interesting.” Eta countered. “Did you know that the reason why Wyoming’s Freelancer armor is white-“

“Adsandebqnedbfewf.” His twin responded with complete nonsense and stuck his tongue out. “I don’t care. They’re weird. And probably all clones. Have you seen their portrait?!”

“Lady Wyoming does look quite the spitting image of her brother, truth be told.” Eta said, swallowing his brother’s conspiracies easily. “Save for the mustache, naturally.” He added with a gentle blush.

“Oh, I’m quite sure she has a mustache, alright!” The Iota cackled. “Just further down.”

York guffawed out loud, the sound echoing in the library. Eta regarded his twin with a puzzled and somewhat agitated look. “What on earth do you-“ then he turned scarlet. “Irving!”

Iota continued his cackle; lacking all shame, and ducked as Eta came to swat him on the head.

“Gods, what on earth are we to do with you?” He said with an indignant huff.

“You love me.” Iota replied at a safe distance from swatting as he sat perched upon a bookshelf once more.

“I do believe that is our cue.” Dee said, rising suddenly. “York, help me put these back.”

“Oh, sorry.” Eta said, grimacing slightly. “We didn’t mean to bother you, _right?_ ” He turned to his brother, who had the grace to stop grinning and look somewhat ashamed.

“Fresh air is beneficial to the mind.” Dee said, effectively waving away their excuses, even though York was certain that he had been quite bothered by them interrupting his studying.

They returned the books to one of the librarians and headed out through the doors on the second floor.

“A trip to the gardens?” York asked.

“I suppose.” Dee responded with little enthusiasm, his eyes off somewhere in the distance. “I was hoping to speak with you-“

He stopped suddenly as the sound of voices echoed in the hall. York recognized them as well, and his stomach turned slightly.

Lord Jonathan Washington XII came around the corner, along with Lord Julien Eboracum. They were in a somewhat stilted discussion, both parties seemingly ready to argue openly but reining themselves in. it even took them a few seconds before they noticed York and Dee coming towards them.

Lord Jonathan stood quite straight and bowed perfectly, followed by Lord Julien doing the same with less vigor and eagerness. York smiled to him, before turning to Lord Washington.

“Your Highness.” Lord Washington said.

“Lord Washington, Lord Eboracum.” Dee responded politely. “Carry on, we were merely walking by on our way to the gardens.”

“Of course.” Lord Washington said, although his eyes fleeted towards York for a second.

“Éric, good to see you.”

York had to fight the urge not to roll his eyes at that. When a man so strict and stiff like Lord Washington chose not to use the proper titles, it was surely meant as a sign of open disrespect. Lord Julien caught on as well, fixing the other man with a silent glare.

“Were we interrupting something?” York asked, choosing to turn to the latter instead, hoping that Lord Washington would notice _that_ sign of open disrespect.

“Post-meetings discussions, as always.” Lord Julien said calmly, with a gentle sigh.

As the Grand Coin, the chief of the country’s finances, Lord Julien worked quite closely with the Grand Sword, Potentia’s master of war. It was a position that seemed to bring little joy to both of them, as York couldn’t help but notice how both Lord Julien and Lord Washington seemed ready to yell at each other at any given moment.

“I see. Have you heard of the Reds and Blues, yet? I hear they have been given a quest of national importance.” York tried not to smile as Lord Washington’s face darkened severely. Dee and Lord Julien seemed to exchange looks, both sighing gently.

“So, I’ve heard.” Lord Washington said curtly. “And I wish them the best of luck on their journey.”

“How fares the Lady Diana, my Lord?” York switched the subject again, going from one sore spot to another. He was an easy man to antagonize, if one dared.

“My wife is quite well.” Lord Washington’s face colored slightly and his mouth became a thin line.

 _Oh, I can do better than that._ York looked back quite calmly. _Want me to start asking how the Whitemount realm finds you after you ordered the slaughter of the Crowclimbers a few years ago? There’s a reason why you’re never home, Lord Washington_.

“By your leave, my prince. My Lords.” Washington bowed before he took off, leaving York to look back at him with a small smirk.

That smirk disappeared as one hand swatted him on the head while another gently jabbed his side.

“Ow!” He said and turned back.

“ _Must you antagonize him, so?”_ Lord Julien said in Marque. “ _Lord Washington is already quite the adversary; you’ll do well to not get on his bad side_.”

 _“Lord Julien is quite correct._ ” Dee responded. Lord Julien turned to look at him in surprise as first, seemingly forgetting that the young prince had quite an adept hand at language.

“ _He’ll live_.” York responded. _“I wasn’t even going to mention the Crowclimber slaughter, I promise_.”

 _“Oh, Éric!”_ Lord Julien’s shoulder slumped slightly. He turned towards Dee. “ _I must apologize, Your Highness. This behavior is quite unacceptable_.”

 _“And I am quite used to it.”_ Dee said, with a very small hint of humor only York could pick up on. _“It wouldn’t be York’s way to not behave somewhat rebellious. I will walk to the gardens, York. You may join me when you two are done.”_

 _“Thank you, Your Highness.”_ Lord Julien said. He waited until Dee was out of earshot before he turned to York. _“I won’t hear of any disrespect towards Lord Washington, Éric, no matter how low your opinions of him might be. It was a quite obvious attempt to get a rise out of him, and you are better than that!”_

 _“It would be easier if he didn’t treat Wash like shit-“_ York stopped and tried to shake some of the anger out. _“No, you’re right. I’m sorry... I’m sure I’m not making your meetings any easier for you.”_

 _“I can endure it, if you desist to make it so difficult.”_ Lord Julien said with a sigh. He placed his hand on York’s shoulder. _“You are not alone in finding his actions quite despicable. I am quite fond of that boy, myself, you know. But there is a limit to how much you can sneer at him in public. He’s a dangerous man with little conscience, as history has proven many times over.”_

_“I know, dad, I know.”_

_“Good.”_ Lord Julien said. He was not as tall as York, so he grabbed the back of his neck to kiss him on the forehead. _“Go. You’ll give me even more grey hairs if you keep leaving the prince without his bodyguard.”_

York smiled and bowed slightly. _“Sir.”_

Lord Julien shook his head as he turned away. York pretty much jogged towards the gardens, and managed to catch Dee before he had even walked outside.

“Sorry.” York said.

“Everything alright?” Dee said, and the continued their journey through the halls at a slow pace.

York nodded. “Well, he let me have it for being disrespectful to Lord Washington. Y’know, the usual.”

“Somewhat alarming that it is a usual affair.” Dee said, but shook his head and considered the subject dropped. “I meant to speak to you about something.”

York looked around to make sure they were alone. “Any news of Sigma?”

Dee shook his head quickly. “No, no. Not something quite as urgent as that. You’ll forgive me if I’m prodding you about a subject you’d rather leave untouched.”

“You’re kinda scaring me here, Dee.” York said. “ _Again_. It’s not like you to be so _concerned_.”

“I am entering unknown territory for me, I’m afraid.” Dee confessed. “Books are much easier than social rules. No, York, again; it is nothing so urgent. But I must tell you that you talk in your sleep-“

“Oh.” York stopped for a second, his heart racing a little bit. He tried to figure out what on earth the prince had heard him say if he was so nervous to mention it-

“You said _Carolina_.” Dee finally said. “I… I hope I’m doing this right, York. I only mean to ask you if you are alright?”

“I am.” York said, quickly. “Well, I suppose not every day. I do miss her quite a lot. It’s been a while but… you don’t forget something like that.”

“Her death was… cruel.” Dee said hesitantly. “Maine was known to be a brute, but this… Oh, I am being quite rude again. I apologize. I tend to talk far past what social conduct deems proper.”

“It’s part of what makes you _you_ , Dee.” York shook his head. “You don’t need to apologize, I mean it. But if it’s alright with you, I’d rather drop the subject-“

“Of course.” Dee seemed quite relieved almost, as if he’d feared York’s reaction would be far worse. “Of course, York. I am sorry for bringing it up.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize this many times in a row.”

Dee flushed slightly. He cleared his throat. “I told you, I am not quite good at this. I deduced it would be better if I apologized one too many times versus one too few. You’re my friend as well as my guard, York.”

“Aaw, shucks.” York laughed and put his arm around the prince, whom seemed to shrink almost, his face completely red by now. “I love you too, Dee!”

“I immediately regret my words. Please desist this.” Dee said coolly, but York was good at picking up that small note of well-meaning sarcasm by now, and hugged him tighter for a second before letting go. “Are you quite certain that you are fine, York?”

“I will be.” York said. “I promise.”

 _We’ll be fine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can, on occasion, decipher family members of the Freelancers by the colors they wear. Lord Julien wears tan clothes with silver trims, not unlike a certain Freelancer's armor, Lord Jonathan Washington wears Wash's colors etc etc. They all color coordinate like their lives depend on it!


	23. Three little dots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends!  
> TW: Prejudice against a marginalized group, past violence and injustice  
> I will make a small summary in the end notes for those who don't want to read the whole discussion.  
> Stay safe!

** The quaking sea **

** Manu Wai **

****

_I am not paranoid,_ Wash thought as he eyed the Guild with a suspicious eye. _I simply wish to know where their loyalties lie_.

After the spectacle that morning, needless to say that Wash and the Guild had some time apart. He had not seen Church at all since their argument, and only saw glimpses of the others. Since he had taken it upon himself to spend some time in the fresh, salty air; the one he saw the most was Grif, who had made swift friends with some of the crew and tagged along easily as they climbed the riggings and tied their knots.

He let his hand run through his hair, once again pondering over how long it had gotten, and sighed once more. It felt like quite the impossible pursuit to befriend the Guild and simultaneously remain a proper man. The complete lack of respect the Guild had for pretty much anything; Wash felt as if though Captain Flower’s Guild had been taken over by bandits and ruffians. Any attempt he made to obtain some military order came with such a vehement disagreement he felt as if they would never be able to respect the other, let alone come to terms with each other.

He might’ve… _Loathed as he hated to admit it_ , his comment of ‘simple peasant’ was terribly uncalled for and deserved an apology, but the comment itself only arose when Church had tried to prod at his weak spots. It was not proper behavior for Wash regardless, although he was getting somewhat tired of always being the one forced to bend to the wills of the Guild.

Seer Franklin’s comment about them rubbing off on him seemed so comically misplaced he almost laughed out loud now. But it didn’t mean he could avoid them forever, and they couldn’t avoid him either. Church was however necessary to evade, he ruefully admitted, as the man seemed eager to anger him at every turn, but the others…

He looked up at the hatch as Grif emerged from there, carrying ropes.

 _They deserve a chance_.

He let his hand run through his hair again, tugging at it gently. It wasn’t really _long_ , perhaps only two centimeters from his scalp, but since he was used to being shaved it was quite unsettling. He asked around from the officers, and in the end he got to borrow a looking glass and some razors from the third lieutenant, John Storm.

He was back into their own cabin, blessedly alone, and had balanced the looking glass fairly well on a sea chest before the door opened and Tucker popped in.

“Oh.” He said. “What are you doing? Ey, is that a razor? I’m next in line!”

He planted himself firmly on the floor next to Wash, who had not moved at all since he barged in. He had expected Tucker to regard him with some trepidation, or at the very least comment somewhat on the events that morning, but it seemed like water under the bridge for him.

Wash blinked. “Certainly. Though it will take a while, I am not used to doing this myself.”

“Meh, I’ll do it.” Tucker said and stood up. He grabbed the razor before Wash had had the time to protest. He turned to the side to show off the very intricate markings shaved into his own hair. “See this shit? I know what I’m doing.”

Wash was in fact quite uncomfortable letting Tucker do it, he couldn’t help but feel like he would mess it up on purpose like the prankster he seemed to be; but it seemed the perfect opportunity to try to rebuild the bridges previously burned.

“Very well.” He said curtly. “Where do you want me?”

“Sit still, I got this.” Tucker grabbed his head, quite roughly, and turned him around to get a better look at his hair. “You had your head shaved, right?”

“I did, yes.”

“Shame.” Tucker said, and Wash turned slightly to look at him with a furrowed brow. “Nothing wrong with your hair now, that’s all.”

“Ah.” Wash didn’t really know how to feel about that comment. “I… prefer it shaved, if you please.”

“ _If you please_.” Tucker scoffed. “Sure, young Lord Washington.”

Wash sighed but stiffened slightly as the razor worked closely against his head. Tucker worked quietly, with a dexterity that very much showed his expertise at the craft.

Tucker leaned in somewhat close, close enough that Wash could notice that he had perhaps had some sailor grog for breakfast, but not too much. And close enough for Wash to notice, for the third time, another detail.

“Are those tattoos?” He asked.

“The fuck, huh?” Tucker leaned back. “No talking, dude, I’m concentrating here.”

Wash decided to do the very mature thing and completely ignore him. He pointed at his own eye for reference. “Those three dots you have, here. What are they?”

Tucker’s head turned slightly, not completely unlike a dog trying to locate a noise. “Why do you wanna know that, exactly?”

“Forgive me,” Wash said, and felt himself turn somewhat red. “It’s just that… I feel like I’ve seen those before.”

Tucker stopped for a second to look down at him and Wash felt like he had said something incredibly wrong for a minute. Which would’ve been quite the feat, as Tucker seemed to bounce back from most insults like they were nothing.

Then he just shook his head and resumed with the razor. “It’s… yeah, I guess you could say they’re tattoos.”

His tone made Wash feel like it wasn’t best to pry, but he couldn’t help to be terribly curious. It hadn’t made him wonder any less, and he still looked at the marks with the same bewilderment and questions. _Where have I seen those before?_

They looked like regular moles on first inspection, but a dotted line encircled each of them, an odd detail that almost made it certain that it was manmade. Tattoos weren’t unheard of in Potentia, but they were often marks of other cultures.

“Where are you from?” He regretted it at first, but couldn’t help but notice Tucker’s eyes widen with something not unlike panic for a split second. _Oh?_ “I do not mean to pry, Tucker.”

“Uh, yeah, bullshit. You totally do.” Tucker said sharply. “I thought you would’ve figured it out, honestly. You Freelancers were supposed to be smart. Haven’t you noticed we swear the same way?”

It was unusually hostile for the rogue. He hadn’t noticed it actually, but with some thought; it was very much true. _Mother of the Sky, By the mountains_ etc. It was a Whitemount saying, a remnant of an old religion that meant little to the people there now other than said as a curse.

“You’re from my region, then.” Wash tried to hide his grimace at that. Besides feeling somewhat ashamed for prying about the tattoos when they were apparently a cause of pain for him, it was somewhat odd to be so informal with a citizen of his own region.

Whitemount was experiencing an interesting time of ruling, to say the least. While his father served as the Grand Sword in Kingslight, his mother, Lady Diana, was the head of the family. The realm had been under a strict guidance under her hand, but few people could argue her honor.

The same could not be said of Lord Jonathan XII. His opinions on sensitive matters were often the exact opposite of his wife, arguing for a harsher, sometimes fatal option. The Crowclimber slaughter was…

Wash remembered some of it, but mainly through the ears of other nobility clamoring for his opinion. People his own age at the time of the event, a mere ten years, would ask about it openly. _Why did all of them die? My father says that it was cruel! Was it true that the bounty hunter killed like… thousands of them?!_ An absurd fascination, and Wash had wanted nothing more than to be rid of the terrible attention he was put under.

The Crowclimbers were a reclusive mountainfolk, sticking to their own principles and rarely leaving the mountains embracing the eastern border of the nation. Some altercations between Snowpeak, their… capitol of a sorts, and some Whitemount cities rose to the ears of Avalanche on occasion. A hunter here and there, poaching on their lands or stealing things. It was little more than petty theft, until the Avalanche estate found their vault wide-open one morning, artifacts that had been in the Washington family for generations, gone.

His father blamed the Crowclimbers. And he had little mercy left to give.

Wyoming, a bounty hunter by trade before he was a Freelancer, was hired to hunt every single Crowclimber he could find. Lucky for him, and pity for everyone else; he had found a train of them, thousands upon thousands, emigrating their own home in light of the recent altercations. Not a soul was left alive.

Most, if not all, had been trying to get away due to injuries or because of their ages; children, the elderly, cripples not even able to stand up. All shot, all slaughtered, all burnt.

And Wash’s father argued, to this day, that it had been the right thing. Whether it was because of pride or if he felt admitting the wrongs in it showed a weakness he could ill afford; he stood tall in front of a massacre he had ordered. The crown had shown little reaction to the slaughter, and Wyoming was even turned a Freelancer a few years after the event. The ban of Crowclimbers in the cities, the ugly rumors of thieves and evildoers, was still active. It seemed to fuel the argument, some were eager to use the rumors as evidence that Lord Washington had done the right thing in striking back, whilst some clamored that both rumor and actions were unjust.

It had seemed a silly detail at first, but Wash remembered some of the bodies piled for the pyres. The children had perhaps one or two, and some of the elders had many in a row. The cripples, if a limb or two had been lost, had them encircled across their bodies.

_Small dots, encircled by even smaller ones._

Wash took a deep breath, feeling somewhat faint, and said,

“You’re a Crowclimber.”

“Yeah.” Tucker said quietly, still attending to his hair. “Really fucking awkward now, right?”

“I am sorry.” Wash said in a rush, and he realized then he had been holding his breath in.

Tucker only huffed and gently tapped the sea chest with the razor, letting the hairs fall. He worked in silence for a while, and Wash felt like he had lost his voice for a second. He had so much to say, his mind a chaos of sentences and condolences. They felt empty and wrong in his mouth.

So, Tucker had spoken Snowtongue then, and not Scanian like his mind for that split second had thought. Knowing the truth, he felt somewhat ready to bury himself in the ground the second they hit solid land.

“Are you going to report me to the King or some shit?” Tucker tried to seem nonchalant about it, but Wash could feel his finger twitch slightly against his scalp. If Crowclimbers weren’t even allowed to enter the cities, they were certainly not allowed to obtain and maintain membership in a Guild.

“No! Absolutely not. I’m not…” -and suddenly, all the thoughts came tumbling out like the rush of a waterfall- “There is little in my family history I find so shamefully as that mindless slaughter. I never agreed to it, and I will never accept it. It’s a tragedy, not a triumph. The loss of thousands of innocents paraded around by _some_ as if it was a brave first act in a war. It's-“

He stopped then and looked up to see Tucker’s eyes wide, his mouth open in shock. He turned red.

“I apologize. It was not my intention to burden you with my thoughts on the matter. You have my word that I will not tell a soul of this.”

It was quiet for a second, and then Tucker chuckled.

“I almost saw a _liiiiittle_ bit of human emotion there, y’know. Kinda caught me by surprise, Wash.”

Wash bit back a groan.

Tucker moved back then and gave his head a look. “We’re good. You’re back to your Freelancer look.”

Wash glanced at himself in the looking glass. He had hoped that, by recognizing himself more in the mirror, he would feel a sense of belonging. A reminder that he was, at heart, a Freelancer. He felt grounded in that, it had given him a sense of self he took much pride in. But as he let his own fingers grace his scalp carefully, he only felt more alienated and unanchored.

“Thank you.” He said regardless.

Tucker bumped him with his hip. “Scooch, it’s my turn. You think my hair looks this good without maintenance?”

Wash moved, somewhat astonished, as Tucker sat down all while whistling a tune.

Was this carefree nature an act or a true sense of nonchalance? It seemed absurd that the man was so calm about a matter that must’ve, no doubt, been the cause of some concern for him. Had Wash been of the similar mindset of his father, he would’ve reported him immediately, perhaps even ordered that the Crowclimber should be kept in chains until they had reached Nochkit.

But there he sat, whistling like a joyous bird.

_How does he do it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary:  
> Wash finds himself in the Guild cabin, in a poor attempt of trying to shave his head, when Tucker walks in. The latter seemed unperturbed about the fight Wash and Church had some time ago, and simply offers to help him with his hair.  
> Wash makes a note, once more, about the small, tattooed circles beneath Tucker's eyes and finds the courage to ask about them.  
> Before Tucker can respond, Wash manages to figure it out for himself. The Washingtons had had many altercations in the past with a group of people living on the eastern mountain chains, more specifically called Crowclimbers. Small altercations at first, a supposed stolen cattle here and there that the Whitemount citizens blamed on the Crowclimbers.  
> One day, years ago, the Washington vault stood open, with several prized possessions stolen. Wash's father took authority in his own hands and hired Wyoming, a bounty hunter, to kill as many Crowclimbers he could find.  
> The event was deemed a complete slaughter, with Wyoming finding and killing a train of them fleeing their capitol in the mountains. The King only gave Wash's father a small reprimand for the terrible event, and Crowclimbers are still not allowed in the cities, and still deemed thieves and thugs.  
> Most of them carry the same tattoos Tucker has.  
> Wash asks, Tucker confirms, and asks whether Wash will give him in to the authorities for it. Wash is vehemently against it, and openly condemns his father about the event in a rare show of emotion.
> 
> (Previous notes:Ah yes, the Crowclimbers. They're mentioned here and there, sparsely, chapter 7 has a few details of it from Tucker's perspective if anyone's curious and would like to read about them. I honestly thought it was about time that we get one of the million questions answered about the Reds and Blues. They’re a secretive bunch!)


	24. Cursework

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning~  
> Volume II is an absolute nightmare to plan, so I'm trying to avoid it by rewriting some of the chapters of Volume I already. I'm sure me avoiding the work is not going to have aaaaany consequences at all.

** The Quaking Sea **

** Manu Wai **

Days floated by at a fairly slow pace. Wash was often invited to dinner in Captain Ash’s cabin, and he found some solace in the company of Jack O’Riley, the first lieutenant. He was indeed of noble birth, as Wash could’ve guessed from his customs, and would often hold polite conversations about the family of Wyoming, whose Lady of the House and O’Riley’s father shared a familial bond with; specifically, second-cousins. Wash’s stomach had turned slightly at the mention of Wyoming and his mind would flash back at Tucker’s reluctant confession, but O’Riley himself seemed only interested in sharing a quick anecdote of his family ties before he carried on with stories of the sea. It seemed he wasn’t so fond of the Wyomings either, something that brought a jolt of joy for Wash; and he gladly continued the conversations with fervor.

Every Guild member seemed to circle the dinner table of the Captain on occasion, thankfully both Caboose and Sarge were chaperoned by the company of other Guild members as well. Grif had managed to charm both the crew and some of the officers, becoming fast friends with the third lieutenant and the surgeon, both of them often invited to the table as well.

Wash and Church were, conveniently, never at the table at the same time. He had no idea if the Guild had shared their altercation to the officers or of it was pure luck. Nevertheless, they hadn’t said a word to one another after the fight.

Until one morning when Seer Franklin decided he had had enough of it and grabbed Wash’s sleeve one morning before he could escape out to the weather deck.

“Waaaash!” He said as he tugged at his sleeve. “We need to have a talk.”

Wash’s eyes flickered towards Church, who was busy trying to untangle parts of his hair with a yawn. Seer Franklin groaned at that. “No, not that, although you two _really_ need to talk it out. No, I meant about our quest!”

It was almost comical how everyone turned to the Seer as said the last words. Wash looked outside for a moment and, upon seeing the gunroom somewhat empty, latched the door.

“Seer Franklin.” He said with a nod. “What do you wish to discuss?”

Franklin and Doc had been diligently working on mapping out instructions from the journal, and when they presented the large scroll they had laid everything out on, the Reds and Blues worked for a while with removing some of the cots from the beams in order to all gather around the makeshift table in the middle.

“So, everyone remembers the vision I told you all about, right? Where CT pointed to the swamp just north of Backwash, yes? Well, so far I haven’t had any visions yet, and I really don’t think we should rely on her sending me another one after we… go to Doc’s master?”

“Do we have any idea on what to _do_ , there? Do you think she’s there?” Tucker nodded towards the spot Doc had marked with a small hut and the text _First trigger_.

“Question is; what the hell do we do if she’s not there?” Grif said.

“She’s probably not.” Church responded as he tilted his head to look at the picture Seer Franklin had drawn. Wash couldn’t help but grimace, and they locked eyes for a moment. Church only looked back with a perfectly neutral expression, perfected enough that Wash _knew_ he was trying his best to look nonchalant and unbothered by him.

 _Fine then_ , Wash thought as he mentally tried to bury the, still, simmering anger in him, _the mission comes first_.

It was a version of the crude drawings Wash had found in Connie’s journal, the odd shapes across a map. Connie’s version had been rushed, with most of the versions crossed out. The copy Doc and Franklin had drawn, was not. It was pentagonal in shape, the lines stretched across a neatly made map of the Potentian Commonwealth. One corner in the swamps of Nochkit, the top one in the Northernmost point of Demec du Marque, one on the Egeniellan Isles and the two bottom ones in the Scanian lands.

Wash stared at it for a few seconds, unable to make sense of it. But his eyes fell back to the scribbles next to the point in Nochkit. _First trigger_. Whatever that meant, it had been part of the message Connie had sent him. _First trigger. Find me. Don’t tell_.

“If she’s working on the curse-“ Church continued, and he looked up at Wash. “That’s what she said she was doing, right?”

Wash only nodded.

“Alright then.” Church looked back at the map. “So, the _first trigger_ , or at least what she thinks is the first trigger, is over here, then?”

“How does she know?” Tucker asked, looking between the two mages. “How does it work?”

Church grimaced slightly. “Cursework is not my strong suite, nor is it Simmons's. If we’re lucky, Doc’s master knows a lot more. I know it’s often in triggers though. There’s the initial trigger, then there’s a few often placed in specific places, and then there’s a failsafe one as well, in case something goes wrong.”

Wash blinked at him. “You _seem_ to know a lot.”

“Oh no.” Simmons shook his head. “Cursework is both illegal, and really complicated. This is just the basics. There’s some cursework plans open for the public, mainly the equations and such on a geometrical curse like this, but it’s with an area of like…a couple of square meters at best and it’s a _nightmare_. It needs to be placed with the trigger point in a perfect line to the other, which is difficult enough on a small curse. A big one like this, that _apparently_ goes across the entire Commonwealth? Whoever did it must’ve written a whole _book_ just for the geometrical equations.”

“Sounds like something you’d love to read.” Grif added with a small smirk. Simmons elbowed him gently with an eyeroll before turning to follow a line with a finger,

“See the shape of the curse here? Curses, well, _geometrical_ curses only work within their shape-“

“Hold!” Wash said, brow furrowed. “You mean to tell us that the curse isn’t working outside of this… shape?”

“It’s not that it’s _not working_ -“ Church pointed out, “It doesn’t _exist_ outside of its shape. The curse only affects those inside of it. _But_ it’s not exactly a small area. The whole of the Potentian Commonwealth is in this shit.”

“Right, so you’re saying we shouldn’t just tell the King to shuttle people up to the Hellasian Isles and hope that the memory curse just _gradually disappears_.”

Church snorted at Tucker’s comment. “Yeah, you tell him that, why don’t you?”

Tucker clicked his tongue as he looked at the map with a furrowed brow. “What’s even _north_ of here? Besides the Isles?”

Wash looked to him. “Surely, you must know?”

“What, because I’m black I _have_ to have come from up north where it’s warm? I can’t be _born and bred_ here?” Tucker turned to him with a raised eyebrow.

“What? No, that was not what I was insinuating.” Wash protested. The very idea that he would ever forget where Tucker was from, given the Washington and Crowclimbers’s brutal history with each other.

But Tucker just waved it away with a sardonic grin. “Relax, I was joking.”

“You’re _staring_ , Tucker,” Grif whistled. The comment seemed out of nowhere, and Wash only blinked at him in confusion, but Tucker tensed visibly and he swung at the hunter with a sputtered,

“No, I _wasn’t_!”

“If we might get this back on track,” Doc said with a nervous tapping of his fingers.

“We have no fucking clue about most of this, is what we’re trying to say-“ Church continued on, as if he’d never been interrupted. He looked up between Tucker and Grif, daring them to start something again. “If we’re lucky, she’s somehow able to figure out where the next one is placed.”

“Do we know what a trigger _looks_ like at least?”

Silence hit the room. Wash could see Church staring into the map, chewing on his lip with his mind seemingly somewhere else.

“Maybe.” He then said. “I think we can break the triggers by getting to the points, so there must be _something_ there. Someone with skills enough to do cursework wouldn’t place triggers without knowing how to break them himself. Maybe there’s an altar or something, with the equations scribbled into it? A curse working specifically like this memory curse might need material with the genetic signature… _from_ the people the curse is trying to repress the memory of? The materials could work as a way to break that particular trigger.”

“Yikes, gross.” Grif snorted. “Like a lock of hair or something?”

Wash deflated somewhat at the theory. “So, the Alpha and the Princesses of Demec du Marque? We cannot collect such _materials_ unless we know who they are. Which we most certainly do not, as it is the very aim of this curse.”

“Eh.” Church said noncommittally. “We don’t know if that _is_ the trigger yet.”

 _But it is certainly a death sentence for Connie’s work if it is_.

“Seers _are_ special people,” Donut said happily, a stark contrast against the gloomy silence. “If there’s a way for someone to see through this curse, it could very well be CT. Let’s not give up hope. The first thing we need to do is to get to the first trigger. Maybe CT’s left notes or something. Or if we’re lucky, I’ll get a vision and she’ll just point to where the next one is.”

“So, we chase her around the world while she tries to break the curse?” Tucker concluded. “Fucking great. If you guys haven’t noticed, _two_ of these triggers are apparently in Scania! How the hell are we gonna get down there?”

“Getting to their shores might not be the difficult part.” Wash knocked at the wall of the ship. “As this one shuttles soldiers down on occasion. But it will certainly prove difficult to survive their defenses and try to sneak into their country.”

“There’s a _lot_ of ifs.” Church pointed out. “And they’re all based on if this… curseshape-thing is correct. Which it might not be. Or, _fuck it_ , some of these triggers might already be broken. We just _think_ we got the first one.”

“So, before this overwhelms us completely.” Wash said. “We go to Doc’s master, where Connie said she had at least _been_ , in Franklin’s vision. We’ll ask him if he knows anything about cursework, possibly even about the first trigger. If we’re lucky, we might be able to figure out its position.”

“It’s a start.” Church sighed as he rubbed his face. “This is going to take forever.”

“I _love_ travelling.” Tucker said, sarcastically. “No, really. I love it.” 

__________

Wash had looked over the operations of the ship on the weather deck several times per day the last weeks, and yet; he'd always find a new detail he hadn't considered. On this particular occasion, he was over by the forecastledeck; observing the mechanism that operated the spikes that would eject beneath the gunports on the hull.

It was so similar to a capstan for the anchors that he had simply assumed it was an extra machine, for whatever reason, and he had observed the men putting the bars in the holes and pushing-all while a very content Grif sat on the top, leading a shanty-quite many times by now.

So when Warlow ordered _, "Spikes!"_ during their current training session, Wash jumped back quite far when four men put their hands into the holes of the capstan-ish machine and pulled. Something down in the forecastle under his feet sprung free with an ominous noise, and massive serrated spikes flung out from the hull, stabbing the air viciously. The ship trembled slightly, and Wash could see the second lieutenant frown and write something in her journal.

Wash had discreetly moved to the railing and observed the spikes, trying his best not to stare like an eager child at the weapons, when he saw Grif ascend the stairs. He quickly moved to look up towards the helm where O'Riley and Sarge stood, discussing something.

Sarge was quite animated in retelling something as the first lieutenant regarded him with polite patience.

"You done gawking at Jack yet?"

Wash turned to Grif with a frown. It took a second before he realized whom he had meant, then he turned scarlet and threw a look at O'Riley. "By the mountains; no! I am not _gawking_ at anyone. I was merely observing the spike mechanism."

"Uh-huh." Grif waggled his eyebrows and leaned against the railing. "Not gonna blame you, you know. We've been on this ship for weeks, dude, everybody gets lonely. And I suppose he's kinda handsome, if you like that _noble seaman_ -kinda look."

"I beg of you to desist the conversation, Grif. I am very much not so lonely I would throw wanton glances at Captain Ash's officers."

Grif gave him a cunning smile and poked at his elbow as he nodded towards a couple of sailors observing the spikes and discussing amongst themselves. "See that woman in the middle? That's Annie Warlow, the ship's armorer and Lieutenant's Warlow's daughter."

Wash didn't respond, only looked at Grif with a raised eyebrow, not too fond of whatever gossip he would no doubt be sharing.

"She's been staring all _wantonly_ or whatever at Jack for years. Whenever she gets a bit too much into her grog she goes on and on about him. Just saying, you might be competing for his attention-"

"Grif!" Wash tried with great restraint, the frustration only coming out as a gentle sigh. "I am not vying for anyone's attention at this ship; I must tell you again to desist that notion."

Grif looked at him for a moment, like he was considering the risks of continuing his teasing to be worth it. Then he raised his hands in defeat with a well-meant, "Whatever, dude."

They stood there in silence, Wash with his mouth a fine line and his jaw firm while Grif looked around with the fond look of a sailor quite content with his vessel. The training session came to an end eventually, and Wash strained his neck to get a look at the capstan-ish machine be used once more to insert the spikes back into their hiding spot somewhere in the ship.

"Where-"

"Between the floor of the decks." Grif answered the question before it was even finished. He gestured with his hand, laying it flat on the railing. "Notice how the blades lay horizontally? The floors are made of layers, with enough empty space between them for the spikes to fit when they're not in use."

"I see." Wash said. "You were a sailor before, correct? I don't think I recall Captain Ash asking you that when we ate dinner together."

"Nah, she asked me on the first day." Grif waved it away. "I was an archer under the Captain of the Marines. So, when I was set at liberty from _The Pelican_ I could pretty much waltz to the Guildmasters and ask for a rogue license. Didn't need to do any real work, it was pretty dope."

"I assume you miss the sea, though?"

Grif caressed the railing with a gentle sigh. "It's a mix. Sea life is pretty fucking rough, you guys are lucky the sea was so calm this time."

Wash could recall a couple of times he had been shamelessly hanging over the railing after a rough gale, but again he wasn't a naval man. Grif must've seen harsher times at sea, certainly.

"The Navy pay is pretty shit. And lots of the crew die by disease, shitty drinking water or rotten food. But when the sea calls; they all come back." Grif shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. "I guess it's not all bad."

The silence that hit them again felt more natural, and Wash felt himself resume his observations of the weather deck. Captain Ash emerged from her cabin to ascent to the poop deck, where O'Riley lent her the looking glass.

Wash looked past the ship to try and find whatever was worthy of the Captain's attention.

"Look up." Grif snickered.

Wash did so, somewhat suspiciously, and only then did he notice a seagull circling the tops of the ship. A couple of crewmen, archers by the looks of it, climbed the rigging with a fury to get to the wooden structure of the fighting top. Wash was alarmed at first before he saw some of the crewmen down on deck laugh and rally them on. The bosun brought the whistle to her lips to bring order before she looked at the seagull, laughed and spat the whistle out; leaving the crew to their antics.

Wash was terribly confused at first before he saw the archers all coming up to the fighting top to take aim at the bird, now joined by another pair of gulls.

It struck him then, as arrows flew past the birds with the accompanied boos from the crew on deck, the reason why the captain looked forward.

"Are we nearing the harbor?" He asked Grif, who whistled and clapped as a gull fell down and tangled itself into the ratlines, crewmen rushing towards it to catch the prize.

"Yup." Grif said absentmindedly, and he looked ready to join the very odd and somewhat brutal game of gullhunting.

"I shan't keep you if you wish to-

"OkCoolBye!" Grif disappeared with great speed and nicked a bow from a clumsy marine before he too climbed up the ratlines.

Wash blinked and found himself uncomposed enough to snort a laugh at the scene, before he cleared his throat and stood tall once more.

The sea had been a somewhat distracting part of their journey, and he was hit with the gravity of their quest with full force. Worries grew like cold knots in his stomach and he let his fingers grace the journal he kept with him at all times.

Somewhere off in the distance, he could see a dark strip across the horizon, just as the lookout cried;

"Land ohoy!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Land is upon us, we have reached a new destination, etc etc!
> 
> Not to SHAMELESSLY plug another part of this story buuut; part 2 of the Potentian Chronicles is actually a semi-serious map of the Potentian Commonwealth (It's called Maps, Indexes etc.) for visual aid. Since this chapter talks alot about the curse surrounding the country, it might be of use if you need it!


	25. Broken glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, friends~  
> I have nothing witty to add, as I'm heading to work pretty much NOW so; Have fun, stay safe!

** The Quaking Sea **

** Manu Wai  **

The broadside salute they made as they closed in on the harbor must've woken the entire city. Wash peered at what little he could see of the landscape in front of him. Backwash was much larger than what he had expected, with the core of the city on the mainlands and many extensions built across a scatterings of islands around it, all connected through quite a large number of bridges. It was a handsome city, Wash had to admit, with many towers and fortresses built behind the large,whitewashed wall protecting the city. He could see many watchtowers and lighthouses built into the mountains, an interesting defense system that would no doubt be an intriguing thing to observe; had he the time. The Backwash harbor was filled with ships, and this day was no exception. But they stood queerly still in the waters, not one sailboat or small schooner taking advantage of the clear day and strong winds.

That made Wash oddly uneasy. Tempest had had an impressive traffic of naval transports, as he had observed a couple of weeks ago, and it seemed quite strange that the capitol of the Ghost Cliffs was so still. Many frigates were moored before them, and yet none offered a salute back.

He saw Captain Ash frown in his peripheral, standing tall with him on the forecastle deck.

"The lead, Mr. O'Riley, if you please." She said without looking at him. She peered through it, the looking glass scanning across Backwash.

Wash couldn't help but be terribly curious as well, and he looked back at the officers surrounding him. He caught the third lieutenant's worried eyes, and Storm leaned forward towards Captain Ash. "Anything amiss, Captain?"

"Not that I can see." She responded. "But we've done this route over ten times and the city has never failed to salute us back. I can't help but wonder. Stay alert, gentlemen."

Wash's heart drummed steadily against his ribcage and he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword to calm himself down somewhat. They weren't close enough to be able to hear anything from the ships moored, and the city was even further away.

"Signal to the city." Captain Ash said at last. When the smokes of their cannons had drifted away; still without being met with anything back.

The Guild was dressed and ready to go, most of them up on the weatherdeck somewhere. Wash had seen a glimpse of their stark colors amidst the sailor's dimmed naval blues and greys. None had come up to stand with him until that moment when Simmons ascended the stairs, almost ramming a midshipman coming down to issue the Captain's signaling command.

"What's wrong?" Simmons said.

"Not sure there is something wrong yet, fellow." Storm said calmly, stroking his short beard. "They failed to salute, not a cause for battlestations."

"Although I'm certain the good lieutenant sees something wrong with this lack of display." O'Riley said with a sharp eye towards Storm. The latter shrugged, which only made O'Riley's lip twitch in annoyance as his eyes darkened further. Wash could've sworn he saw the second lieutenant and the Captain share eyerolls with each other.

Personally, he agreed with O'Riley, and felt like the nonexistent life of the city could only mean something was quite amiss. Was it under siege? Had Scania decided to attack the Commonwealth after years and years of passive defense?

"Hold on." Captain Ash brought the looking glass to her eyes again as the officers leaned over the railing, and Wash privately cursed that he stood in front of the bowsprit; his vision obstructed by the large wooden spar jutting out from the prow.

"I can see crew on some of the ships. All hands were down on the weatherdeck." Captain Ash said sharply as she looked around, almost hitting O'Riley in the face as she peered around the city. "Something is indeed amiss, and I can't see a signalflag from the ships. Mr. O'Riley, I need your eyes."

She gave it to her first lieutenant, who took over the job of observing the city as turned to the crew with a grim face. Wash and Simmons looked at each other with amounting alarm.

"Miss Warlow." Captain Ash said, with great finality. "Beat to quarters."

"Very good, ma'am." Warlow responded and hurried across to the stern end of the forecastle deck. As she descended Wash heard her cry out, "Miss Orion, sound the whistle. We shall beat to quarters!"

A terribly sharp whistle emerged from the bosun's whistle as the ship seemed to come alive at alarming speed, led by the rapid beats of a drum down in the gunroom. The crew already on deck went from leisurely walking and doing their chores to sprinting around with great speed. Archers climbed up to the fighting tops as the Captain of the Royal Marines spurred them on. The hatch was filled with people coming up on deck, crewmen and officers shoving past each other without the thought of saluting or paying respects.

Crew manned the carronades on the weatherdeck, and Storm hurried down to the hatch, grabbing the gunner and his powder monkeys on their way down to the gundecks. The surgeon, Fredrika Veritas, gestured at her surgeon mates as they carried down saws and medical supplies down to her sick-berth.

Somewhere amidst the chaos, Wash heard the sound of the whistle again, and Orion called out;

"Beat to quarters, all hand man their battlestations! Beat to quarters!"

It became terrible clear that the city seemed to be under some sort of threat, and Wash felt himself uselessly grab at his sword once more; not used to not being able to aid in such a dire situation.

Warlow called for him and Simmons then, and ordered them down to their cabin for safety. Wash opened his mouth to argue, but he knew that he would be of little use now; an untrained man in the midst of a tightly maneuvered ship preparing for battle would only cause harm. He saluted her and went down, Simmons on his heel.

"What's going on?" Doc opened the door for them to their cabin, where the rest of the Guild were confined to their small space. The very room seemed drenched in nerves and alarm, and most of them seemed to look around for an explanation. Grif stood with a grim face, looking out through the door before Wash closed it behind him.

"We're beating to quarters." He said, uncharacteristically serious. He grabbed for Simmons and held his hand against the small of his back. "Is it another ship?"

"No." Wash shook his head. "But the city is too quiet, and the crews of the other ships were hiding up until now."

"Sounds like a trap." Grif said, which certainly didn't make the rest of the Guild any calmer.

"Let me at 'em!" Sarge said bravely, grasping his sword. "I'll show them what it means to try and capture a Red!"

"It seemed only a precaution, Sergeant." Wash said as he put his hand on Sarge's arm to halt him. "We're preparing for the possibility of battle, not the certainty of it."

"Bullhonky." Sarge muttered and seemed terribly disappointed that he didn't get to fight immediately.

Silence hit them as the ship worked around them, but it stilled eventually; all ready and quiet for a possible altercation. Even the whistle had died out, and only the creaks and groans of the ship was heard.

Wash looked around at the Guild, all of them listening in to the slightest of details. Most of their weapons were stored in their chests, and Church's battlemage staff was quite thoroughly hidden, swatted in layers upon layers of cloth. It had seemed clever at the time, to avoid the suspicion that seemingly came with his Scanian magic, but now Wash stared at the sea chest where it laid with great regret; praying to the Mother of the Sky that they wouldn't need the healer's skills.

Someone called something from the deck, and the command came down in repeated cries down to their position. Wash turned to Grif, who stood by the door and listened in. The hunter furrowed his brow, and gestured for the Guild to be quiet when more than one opened his mouth to ask him what it was.

A command came down again, and this time Grif turned to them, unlatching the door. "We got a signal from a ship moored in the harbor. An arcane explosion, just before we arrived."

"Gods." Wash said, and couldn't help but shiver at the thought of it. He hadn't seen the damages done by the infamous arcane explosion in Kingslight five years ago, but it was still talked about. Certainly, it was not something easy to endure and repair.

Both of the Reds turned to their leader in what Wash assumed was for orders or support, but their eyes seemed somewhat wary; as if they had poked at a fresh, infected wound. Wash's eyes flickered towards the sergeant, who stared at a spot in front of him with a pale complexion and a set jaw.

Wash could see the Blues look between themselves with shared understanding, all while Doc and Wash himself stood terribly confused and at a loss of what to do.

Blessedly enough, they didn't need to figure it out as the surgeon came down and opened the door with a quick pace.

"Mr. Church, Mr. DuFresne." She nodded towards Church and Doc. "It seems the city has been hit, with few injuries but injuries none the less. I was called upon to aid the people of the city, and I would like to have you two come along. Do you have any staffs or healing herbs that needs to be brought up to the weather deck?"

Doc nodded, but Church cast a somewhat panicked glance towards the chest where his battle staff was hidden.

"No." He said at last. "We'll meet you up on the deck, Doctor."

"Very well." She said and turned. Church took a step back, mulling something over, before he turned to Simmons.

"We need to split up then. Any ideas? Someplace most people in the city would know, so that we can ask around."

"Sirenpool; the fountain of the main square." He said after some thought. "It's the very center part of the city. You'll find your way there. It's sprawling with inns too, so we'll find boarding in one of them and wait for you. If you're not back by nightfall, we'll start looking. The city's probably put up healing stations all over; you'll be in one of them."

Church nodded and grabbed his coat. "Caboose, make sure no one drops my chest, ok? My shit's expensive."

"Yes, sir!" Caboose said happily as Church and Doc took off to the weather deck.

Even though they were allowed out, and the crew had gone back to preparing to moor, Wash still felt the adrenaline of the naval preparations for battle, and had quite the hard time relaxing. They were anchoring around four giant poles jutting out from the sea, and it was a maneuver requiring quite the sailing skill. All three lieutenants and the bosun were shouting orders from their respecting mooring spot while Captain Ash took in intel from the lookout and distributed it, ordering one hawser to be pulled three points that way and another five points the other.

Grif had, once more, found a natural spot up in the rigging and came to help while the rest of them stood quite uselessly on the deck, pressed to the side of the raised aftercastle in order to be less in the way. Finally, the shouts of _'kedge anchor two points more off the prow, if you please'_ died down and the order to start lowering the longboats came.

"I can thank you for quite some time and it will still not be enough for the service you have provided, Captain." Wash said to Captain Ash as they neared their parting.

The Captain regarded him with an amused smile. "Gods, the way you dish out compliments, Washington. It's quite alright; you paid quite a handsome prize to come along on a journey we were already set upon. Think nothing of it, and do come look for us in the harbor when your journey takes you back here."

Wash smiled back and shook her hand with a small bow, and did the same to O'Riley, who stood to her left; tall and proud.

"It was a pleasure, young Lord Washington. I do hope we will come to meet again." He said politely, with a firm grip of a proper naval man. Wash felt a pang of discomfort then, realizing how much he would likely miss the rigorous, honorable ways of the Navy. It felt particularly so, he noticed with grim humor, when he witnessed Tucker making lewd gestures at one of the crewmembers in his peripheral.

They were moored quite a far bit out, and while Church and Doc left on the first longboat, the rest of the Guild were set to leave one solid hour later, on one of the last boats. By that time, Wash was quite tired at just staring at the city, and volunteered to take part in the rowing.

The city was bustling with a semi-panicked mood, people walking in a brisk pace whilst officers and guards ordered people in and out of certain streets and alleys. Only one guard stood to greet them as they finally approached the pier, and she looked at them with an agitated expression whilst drumming her finger on her hauberk.

"Greetings." Wash said, and he looked around in search of more patrols. It was met with a nod of her head. "Pray tell, how come there are not more guards-"

"The explosion was inland, lad." She said, with an irritated tone that indicated she had been asked that many times by now. She pointed back, as if Wash needed more help in deducing what _inland_ in fact, meant.

"I see. Thank you, guardsman."

In his peripheral, Wash saw Caboose climb up on the pier, lay down and happily exclaim ' _not moving, good wood. This is a good wood. It is not moving_ ' and Wash couldn't help but shift his footing too. It felt quite odd to have the planks beneath him not shift to the swell of the sea, and for a second he was baffled by the fact that he had been on the sea for the good of the month.

"Shall we move to... Sirenpool?" Wash turned to the rest of the Guild. His eyes turned to Simmons, but the man was quite occupied carefully moving the cage Sheila was currently sitting in, chirping somewhat aggressively and trying to get the hood off of her head.

"There's a good girl." Sarge said as he patted the cage. He turned to look into the longboat. "And there's also a very good boy there, Lopez."

"He vomited on my breeches, sir." Said a sailor quite unhappily from the longboat.

"Hush, son, you smelled of vomit and grog way before he did that. There's a very good boy there, Lopez." Sarge said with more fervor as the dog popped up from the longboat.

The dog shook himself off and immediately started sniffing the pier with a suspicious glare at everything that moved. He sniffed at Sheila's cage once and then continued inlands with clear focus.

"Uh." Wash said, feeling somewhat lost. "Sergeant, the dog... your dog-"

"Ah, Lopez's smarter than most people here; he'll find his way- Lopez!"

The dog snorted and turned around somewhat slowly.

"I want you by Sirenpool by nightfall, alright?" Sarge raised a stern finger and pointed at him. "It's a dangerous place to be by yourself. I don't want you picking up any strays, understood?"

He snorted and disappeared into the crowd. Wash stood there, blinking at the dog; terribly lost.

"You can just add that to the list, son." Sarge said as he came up next to him, clasping his shoulder quite fatherly. " _All the times the Reds and Blues made Washington stare in wonder._ "

"Indeed." Wash muttered and took a step to the side, letting Sarge's hand fall. "Are we all ready to leave? Perhaps we can find boarding quite early, and see if the city requires any assistance."

"They mainly need healers, I suspect." Simmons said while stifling a small yawn. "Let's find boarding first."

"After you." Wash said and gestured towards the city, letting the native lead the way.

Backwash was indeed a city in the midst of handling an arcane explosion, with its citizens seemingly crouching and staying low at the slightest of sounds. The Guild got their fair share of glares and hushing gestures as they walked past, armor clanking and heavy gear logged around. Smoke rose from some sights more inland, and although the part of the city the Guild was currently in seemed spared from the explosions; they came across sick tents and medics running between the streets with great hurry.

Guardsmen patrolled the streets with regularity and vigilance, eyeing every other civilian walking past them with a critical eye. The Guild passed with much scrutiny, one guard even going as far as to turn around to walk backwards as he stared upon the giant frame of Caboose; who noticed him quite quickly and waved happily towards him.

"Good thing you shaved, fencer." Tucker said with a grin. "If we had _two_ tall, blonde men they'd probably think we were Scanian spies or some shit."

"Dude, shut up." Simmons said from the front with a frantic gesture. "The whole fucking city's on alert, shush."

They continued on with a pregnant silence, even Sheila deemed the situation not something to chirp and squawk at; sitting quite still in her cage. The closer they got to what Simmons had deemed the middle of town, the more they heard the sounds of the aftermath.

It was somewhat quiet at first, and came by with little notice. A broken window here and there, sometimes with a person standing outside sweeping the glass away from the street; sometimes not. Someone cried quite loudly in a two-story home, the sound echoing through the shattered windows. Small splatters of blood could be found here and there, on shards, streets or still streaming quietly from wounds as injured people walked past them to get to a sick tent.

Then came the smell of burnt flesh, so sudden that it took Wash back for a second as he stumbled, caught between catching his breath and trying to fight the very instinct in order to not breathe in the horrendous smell. He stood still for a moment and caught the eyes of someone huddled in an alleyway, clutching their arm. The sleeve seemed to have burnt off entirely, strings of cloth fused with the bubbly, dark grease the shoulder had been turned into. The person, a man seemingly in his forties, took a deep breath and turned still, his eyes unmoving.

"Wash." Franklin gently touched his arm with a worried voice. "Are you alrig- oh."

They both turned quiet, staring at the corpse, before Wash finally collected himself and gently gripped Franklin's elbow to move him away. "Let us go, Seer Franklin. This is not something we need to see. He is already gone."

"That's terrible." Franklin said in dismay as they continued on. "Oh, but at least Sarge was spared that."

Wash's brow furrowed at that and the glanced up to where the three Reds walked, both Grif and Simmons seemingly on high alert while Sarge walked in the middle with his gaze firmly on the ground.

Something caught Simmons's eye and he turned slightly to shield the leader, to the protest of Sarge.

"By the gods, Simmons; I am not a broken old man in need of coddling. Stop that!"

"I'm not doing anything, sir." Simmons said immediately, but he didn't cease to shield the leader from whatever it was he deemed dangerous for Sarge to view.

Wash turned to Franklin with a raised brow, and the Seer gestured to his own left arm and then the side of his face. It took a second or two for Wash to understand, before he looked at Sarge's leather contraption that covered his left arm with a newfound understanding. He had seen the blackened, burnt mess of skin before. He nodded towards Franklin to show his thanks.

They came to Sirenpool eventually, all of them quite tired from carrying the gear that had previously been stowed in their wagon before they took to ship. Wash had eyed every stable they passed with a longing sigh, but as the giant, ivory fountain came into view he found a level of strength he had previously lacked and walked up next to Simmons.

"You have the advantage of us; where should we stay for the evening?"

Simmons nodded towards a three-story building with little traffic going in and out of the somewhat battered and chipped red, oak door.

The owner had spoken with such a thick Nochkitian accent that Wash just stood there, blinking at him, until Simmons came to his rescue and took over the job of booking two rooms.

“They’re a wee bit small.” Simmons translated to the Guild as the owner rolled his eyes and scoffed at the tourists. “The rooms, that is. They only have the smaller ones left.”

“I’m sorry-“ Grif said between fits of giggles. “They’re a _wee_ bit small?”

“Shut up.”

“Ah, dinnya fess over it, laddie!” Grif said, trying his best to imitate the Nochkitian accent. “We can share a room, ya ken.”

“That is _so_ bad, stop.” Simmons said, swatting at Grif while apologizing to the owner.

It was quite the relief to be rid of their bags at their rooms, this time the Reds and Blues splitting up by team color. It fell to most of them quite naturally, although Wash had to think for a second before remembering that he was technically a member of the Blue team.

Wash grimaced somewhat at the realization that he and Church had to share a room, as they still hadn't had the opportunity to reconcile, or at the very least; talk to each other after their disagreement earlier. He could still feel the remnants of anger blossoming whenever he thought about it, and he rolled his shoulders with an explosive sigh to try and get it out of him.

He had, of course, not heard a single word of an apology from the mage for the, frankly, treacherous ways he spoke of the King and his family. Wash knew he was in the right in this, with the very law backing him, but Church seemed completely unperturbed by the potential consequences of his slander; seemingly used to throwing such insults on the daily. It was quite alarming, and not a little bit enraging.

After packing up the necessary belongings, he ventured over to the Reds to further view the map Franklin and Doc had drawn together, and to consult the journal further. It still felt like a wild goose chase, with little evidence to go after, and Wash had to stave off the impulse to prod Franklin with a stick and go ' _c'mon, have a vision, if you please'_.

Simmons popped in over Franklin's shoulder to map out the way out of Backwash whilst Doc's scribbles continued on and moved along the roads through the swamps. Horses were no use, as Doc had previously said, for most animals shunned away from the cursed area with a fervor. Wash eyed Sheila with a bit of skepticism but opted not to say anything on the subject; and hoped she would somehow be different.

If Church and Doc would return that evening, they would leave at dawn, which sounded quite dramatic when Simmons had announced it. As Grif groaned a protest, the pyromancer pointed quite the stern finger at him and said;

"No, I'm serious. We can move through the swamps before night hit us, but we have to move the second we get sunlight... actually we should probably move out of town before that, so that we are ready to enter the swamps when dawn comes."

Grif stared at Simmons with a frustrated move of his arms but said nothing. As Doc and Church came to join them later in the evening, Doc concurred and continued to explain;

"The... creatures in the swamps are sensitive to sunlight; so much so that they refuse to leave the waters when the sun is out. If we get a day of clear skies, we have to take that chance. We need to leave an hour before dawn, just to make sure we get the most of the light."

They all went to bed with worry gnawing at them. Wash tossed and turned that night, unable to not repeat the sentences of the creatures in the swamp; a detail the good Doc had seemingly neglected to tell them. Not knowing what exactly it could be, it fueled his imaginations and sent him to a fitful sleep full of nightmares.


	26. Battle mages are sensitive, thank you very much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Volume II is still a nightmare, thank you for asking. I have rewritten the entirety of chapter 4... THRICE. At this rate, this volume will SOMEHOW catch up with me, even though I'm only releasing 1ch/week to give myself a chance to write ahead.
> 
> Damn you Volume II~~

** Backwash, Nochkit **

Tucker had _no_ idea when it happened.

It was subtle at first, subtle enough that he couldn’t even remember when it had begun; wasn’t it just something he had always known? Or noticed? It was a first-instinct-thing, like putting someone’s eye color to memory; it just happened without thought or judgement or, frankly, input. It was just a rogue-thing, right?

Grif had a tattoo on his neck that he tried to hide, Simmons fidgeted with his hands non-stop if he got nervous, Church hated snowstorms with a burning passion, Wash had a _fantastic ass_ , Caboose had a thing about not getting blood on his face (you’re a MARAUDER YOU STUPI-) and Sarge would often stand and glare at the braziers on the outer wall of Kingslight like they had killed his whole family.

It was just a thing that he noticed. Without thought. Without input. Without _any_ attachment to it, at all.

_Wash had a fantastic ass, ok, cool, moving on._

It was his own fault, frankly. When they first had met, Wash had a tendency to marsh on in front of him to get away from conversation, or whatever. Given how they were constantly walking _up a hill_ , it gave Tucker a fantastic view. And he didn’t mean to look, really. He wasn’t that creepy. It was just a thing he noticed and put to memory. Like any other noticeable feature that distinguished him from all the other tall, white Potentians he seemed to be surrounded by.

 _Somebody does squats¸_ he had thought. And then moved on.

Thing is, the stupid feature came back in his head several times a day. Without input. Without thought and definitely without whether Tucker wanted it to or not. But according to Grif’s _insufferably smug smile_ ; Tucker had looked the stupid, tall man up and down. Several times a day.

He’d make a conscious effort to _not_ look, to _not_ be that creepy, and then his eyes would just wander in Wash’s goddamn direction like he was constantly in his peripheral.

It was incident after incident after incident and Tucker would just get more and more annoyed. On occasion, Grif would pop in out of nowhere like an island imp and just go, “ _You’re staring”_ and Tucker had to go on a whole spiel about how he absolutely wasn’t, Grif was very wrong, and simultaneously have the entire conversation without anyone catching on on whatever they were discussing,

Grif knowing was bad enough. Church knowing would be mortifying. And Wash himself knowing would probably make Tucker lay down in in the busiest street in Kingslight displaying a scroll in his nicest, neatest handwriting saying ‘ _RIDE OVER ME’_.

It was terrible. And weird. _Very_ weird. Tucker had _had_ physical fixations like that before, Mountains knows he’s not exactly a nun, but the fixation would always we on someone Tucker would want to strip naked and have their way with. Several times in a row. At least five times a day.

Wash wasn’t that.

Wash was dull, boring and stuck to the rules. He was wooden, never relaxed and seemed ready to just… _sneer_ at anything the Guild did. Like they were less than. Like they were beneath him. Sure, House Washington, protector of the realm of Whitemount yada yada yada. Tucker was certain he had been told he was important every day. That things would work out for him, that he’d have somewhere to return to. That he was _better than them_.

And _then_ , just when Tucker thought he had the man figured out; he does a complete 180 on his very predictable behavior and acts all nice about Tucker’s origins. It was… weird. It tugged at his whole being in a weird way. He was so sure, _so fucking sure_ , that the man who almost battled Church just on the basis of calling the King by his first name (honestly, Potentians were just so fucking weird) would immediately give Tucker up.

It was a decree _by the King_ that Crowclimbers were not allowed in cities, it was a decree by the King that the Crowclimbers were basically nothing more than thieves and poachers and yada-yada. Tucker had heard enough bullshit spat around him whenever the subject would come up. And then David Washington, a member of the family who ordered the Crowclimber slaughter, just up and said that it was a horrible thing to do. Like yeah, _no shit it was_ , but for some reason Tucker hadn’t expected Wash to go against his family wishes. Or the King’s decree. It was so… interesting? He couldn’t put his finger on it.

Tucker shuffled around in his small bed. The only way to fall asleep if Caboose was in the room was to make sure to be dead asleep before Caboose’s head hits the pillow. It takes _two seconds_ for that giant man-baby to fall asleep. Naturally, he hadn’t fallen asleep yet, and now he was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

And occasionally glancing Wash’s way, now that Grif couldn’t give him shit about it.

He even slept weirdly formal, straight as a nail with his hands resting on his abdomen, mouth slightly open and his chest rising gently. But hey, at least he didn’t scowl or bite his lip in order to fight the urge to yell, like he always does otherwise. Tucker had noticed. He was good at noticing.

 _Mother of the fucking Sky_ , Tucker looked up at the ceiling again. _What the hell is happening?_

*************************

"Mr. Washingtub."

Wash came to at the second prod of Caboose's finger, the force great enough for him to swing back in his bed slightly with a grunt of pain. The room was lit only with the cheap rushlights casting off shadows in the corners. He yawned slightly and rubbed his face but sat up immediately; always at the ready. Church was, evidently, not much for mornings, as the mage was prone to just sitting up for five minutes; yawning and trying to untangle his hair, continuously muttering about how he should just _cut it_. Tucker, on the other hand, had gotten ready with an impressive amount of efficiency, almost jumping out of the room the second Wash woke up, barreling into Sarge if Wash understood the gruff comment coming from the corridor outside.

The Guild animals had been left at the inn, with an extra sum of astari for the owner and the promise that they would be back within a week and that the owner could expect more gold when they returned. Sheila chirped a birdlike goodbye whilst Lopez watched them leave with a snort, his tail lashing unhappily.

Silence fell once more, accompanied only by the heavy yawns from Grif. Wash rolled his shoulder, quite happy to only have small packing with him. With the promise that the swamps would only take one day, and that Doc's master would surely give them housing for the night; they had packed quite light, save for their weapons and armor.

Wash had only sighed gently when he saw the telltale, bright red armor of the leader as he exited the inn. Thankfully, the remaining Guild's armor were not so exuberant, save for Tucker's travel cloak; which almost seemed to gleam in the night.

"Off we go." Simmons said, with an air of finality as he and Doc led the way.

The further north they went, the more battered and broken both the citizens and the streets became. Wash would occasionally step on broken glass, and a sweeper would seemingly emerge out of nothing to sweep it off the street before he even had time to comment on it. It smelled odd and acrid, and on occasion they would walk past a sick tent; the sound of the sick and dying echoing queerly in the alleyways. They passed easy through the gates and under the raised portcullis, the guards barely acknowledging them. During a time of crisis, they were certainly not the only ones trying to get out of the city.

Dawn hit them earlier than what they had hoped, and when they reached a small bridge, cut off from view by tall trees and overgrown bushes, Simmons stopped with a sudden curse that made the Guild jump back. He stood on the bridge, seemingly lost in thought.

"Is everything alright?" Wash said with his hand on his sword.

"Yeah, it's fine I just- ugh." He turned to Doc. "We forgot about the freaking Battle mage over here."

Church looked up with a furrowed brow as Doc pondered for a second. Then his face turned slightly white.

"Oooh." He said. "Oh no, of course. He runs a greater risk-"

"-Because of the healing magic-" Simmons said.

"-And he's not used to it, of course. Darnit, we don't have time for this." Doc sighed and shook his head.

"Excuse me?" Church said as he came towards them from the back of the company. He was stopped, quite abruptly, by Simmons's hand as he came towards them on the bridge.

”Uuuuh, we might have to leave you behind.”

“What the shit? What?” Church seethed and swatted the hand away.

“I'm sorry, Church. It's because of the way battle mages just... y'know... you have bigger extraction circles for magic, and it's not a good idea here."

“I understood nothing of that sentence.” Wash stated noncommittally.

“Welcome to my life.” Grif yapped with his hand. “It’s _always_ about magic with this one.”

“Not now, Grif! This is serious.” The pyromancer said with a tinge of panic. He turned towards his lover for a second, then went back to stand in the way of the other mage. Church was one foot down the small bridge before he got swatted away again. He growled.

“Simmons, what the hell are you on about?”

Simmons sighed and took a step back.

“Just hear me out, ok? I know we don't have that much time, so I'm gonna try to be quick.” As Church raised his eyebrows but didn’t offer any verbal rebuttal, he continued, “The Ghost Cliffs swamps... y'know how we said they're filled with creatures of the night and some dramatic bullshit like that?"

Wash looked at Simmons with a polite look of patience. It was, frankly, about time that Simmons would disclose some information on the supposed creatures of the swamp.

Church, however, only scoffed and rolled his eyes. “C'mon, get to the point."

Simmons pinched his nose bridge and sighed. He looked around, as if to make sure that the Guild was surely alone. “You know the stories about the dead walking the cliffs at night here in Nochkit? Accidental necromantic summonings because of the sheer amount of spirits and ghosts? _That_ is actually true, Nochkit is full of angry, vengeful spirits-“

“Yeah I know. We went through the same arcane theoretic classes. We’re losing daylight so _get to the point_.”

Wash looked between the two mages, anger rising. He would have liked to know that information, _thank you very much_. Accidental necromantic summonings seemed an absurd concept, but Simmons said it so matter-of-factly that Wash believed him without pause. Then his breath caught short when Simmons said;

“You know how possession works right?”

Simmons seemed to immediately regret his words. He bit his tongue and cursed when he saw the reaction of the men around him. Grif’s head flew up so quickly he would probably feel it later in the evening, Franklin’s mouth fell open and Caboose covered his ears with his hands… For some strange reason that Wash couldn’t comprehend. Church’s eyebrow furrowed, the gears in his head turning. Wash opened his mouth immediately, ready to question him, but Grif cut in before he had the time.

“Wait, hold up!” Grif crept closer and whispered furiously. “You didn’t say anything about possession, Simmons? Is that actually _real_?! I thought that was just something you told me to freak me out!”

“Why would I-“ Simmons groaned and grasped Grif’s shoulder, moving him backwards. “It’s rare, ok? And you’re not in any danger of becoming possessed, don’t worry. You on the other hand-“ He said, turning to Church.

“Wait, is that why you want me to stay here? Possession-risk?" The dark-haired mage crossed his arms defiantly, seemingly not bothered by the terrifying prospect. “I’m as battle mage; this isn't my first time around dangerous spirits."

“Yeah, that’s the problem.” Simmons muttered. “You’re used to the Scanian ooooor Potentian energies, and whatever evil spirits they have, ok? That shit is nothing against this place. As a battle mage– _damnit Grif, stop fake snoring no one asked you to listen_ \- you have the biggest extraction circle of all types of mages. So, you pick up much more magic naturally, because you use it up much faster.

“It's up to you,“ Simmons continued, disregarding the general look of confusion of the Guild. "If we can get to Doc's master before sunset; there's nothing to worry about. Literally nothing! But on the off chance that we don't and we encounter anything bad, I just want you to know _why_ you're not supposed to use your magic!"

“Yeah, I’m sold.” Grif raised a hand. “Anyone who’s up for leaving this angry possessable bastard here, say aye!”

"That was not the point-" Doc argued quietly.

“Aye.” Said Sarge quite quickly. Caboose joined in with a happy, _“Me! No wait, I, that is what I meant. Can I start over?”_

Church looked absolutely betrayed. “What the hell? You can’t leave me here, I’m the only one of you who can heal injuries.”

Doc cleared his throat and dusted imaginary dust off his coat. “I am here too, you know.”

Church turned to look at him for a second. Then he turned back to Simmons and thumbed in the herbalist’s direction. “Seriously, you’re all dead without me.”

Doc gasped as his left hand flew to his chest, looking appalled. “Hey, I take offense to that!”

“You should, I’m insulting you.”

“Church, this isn’t personal.” Simmons tried.

“Eh, it is a little bit.” Wash found himself muttering, before he could stop himself. He stopped quite abruptly, flushing red. It was a very unbecoming comment, and a silly one in the face of such a threat.

“Yeah, second that.” Tucker grinned, not noticing Wash's look of quiet dismay.

The battle mage growled and pointed at the two of them. “You two are never getting healed again. Ever. Seriously, have fun limping around on the battlefield.”

“Oh for the love of-” Simmons screeched, his hands raised in the air in defeat. “I'm just trying to freaking warn you, ok? Don't use any magic that isn't neutral. If you get possessed, I’m just gonna toss you over a cliff, I am _not_ in the mood for a cleansing ritual.”

“Oh heavens, those are the _worst_ , right?” Doc nodded. “Takes forever too!”

"If I may-" Wash said. "I would like to know more about this. It seemed a very poignant thing to mention, and I am not quite pleased with the fact that you chose to not say anything until we got here."

Simmons sighed and pushed his hair back from his face. "It's a rare thing, ok? Back in Potentia there's like... no risk of it, essentially. I've been there for too long, I'm sorry. It didn't cross my mind until now."

"Fantastic." Church said sarcastically. "I'm glad the risk of me getting possessed crossed your mind just _now._ Anything else you want to share with the class, or should we just throw ourselves headfirst into this thing and hope for the best? What exactly are those creatures in the swamps?"

Simmons looked like he had regretted telling them in the first place. He bit his cheek and looked down. "They're... possessed dead. Mages who got possessed and didn't get healed in time. But it's fine; It's just a precaution, nothing else. If all goes well, we'll get to Doc's master before twilight. I didn't want to freak you guys out for nothing."

"This isn't nothing?!" Church protested, and Wash had the mind to agree with him.

"I'm sorry!" Simmons said and gestured quite widely with his arms. "It's scary, I get it, but it isn't a threat at all unless you use your defensive magic. There's nothing in the swamps in the daytime, so there's little risk of need for it. And frankly, if someone falls and breaks their ankle or whatever, they'll have to deal with it until we get to Doc's master anyway."

Wash and Church looked at each other, but before they could continue their questioning, Sarge cut in;

"If you boys are done yapping the daylight away, we need to make a decision. Either we leave you here-"

"Absolutely not." Church argued.

"-Or we get a move on now and hope that the dead mages don't come gnawing at our feet."

Wash's eyes flickered towards the sun and took a deep breath. "It is up to you, Church. You're, apparently, the one at risk."

"I'm not staying here." Church said, with an urgency that seemed quite off. "Not when we're so close. We're going."

The remaining Guild had much to say to that. Tucker grabbed Church's arm before he had the time to turn around and cross the bridge and argued with him for it until even Wash couldn't help but look up into the sky, staring at the sun creeping up on them. Simmons tried to play the voice of reason, albeit a nervous one, but Church stood firmly on going and with a defeated sigh, Simmons took the lead across the bridge.

Wash brought his cloak closer to him, already disliking the smell of their surroundings. A cold wind had hit him as soon as he crossed the bridge, and it felt eerily like he had stepped into another world.

_I pray the sun stays with us._


	27. Stars don’t blink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends, don't mind me; just uploading early since I'm working a nightshift and will most likely sleep all of Monday away.
> 
> Funny enough, this was one of the first chapters I wrote for this story, I had made maybe 5 or 6 and was feeling particularly excited about the following mysterious and dark chapters, so I decided to write them early. Welcome to the first one.
> 
> Creepy stuff ahead, beware!

** The Backwash swamps, Nochkit **

The sun did, in fact, not stay with them for long, which led the Guild to walk with a brisk focus that left them in silence. It took them hours until a noise eventually broke the air.

”Ugh.”

The entire Guild pretty much flew a few feet up in the air at the sound. Sarge stood ready for battle, wildly looking around at a collection of moss as if it were going to start growling and attack him. Wash whipped his head back at the noise.

Church stood with his sleeve covering his nose, his posture slightly bent forward as if he had been wading through heavy snow and just stopped for a rest.

“Shit, what _is_ it with you? Getting possessed?" Tucker asked. "We’re totally gonna leave you to the spirits if you do.”

“Gee thanks, asshat.” Church muttered through the sleeve. “You can’t smell that?”

Wash’s brow furrowed. He sniffed the air, and caught the rest of the Guild doing the same thing. Nothing. The residual waft of the mire never left, and while that wasn’t perhaps the most pleasant smell it wasn’t exactly new. The stench of the bogs and the earthy, heavy air reminded Wash of why he would always prefer a walk amongst the cold, steep and dangerous paths of Whitemount. It was inhospitable in some ways, but it never smelled…. Like the dead.

Still, no _new_ smell. Just death and decay for the past hour or so. He turned to Tucker for a confirmation, who just shook his head

“No. Just a mage thing or are you going insane?”

Church ignored him and opted for standing on his toes to try and look Simmons in the eye. Said mage was at the forefront with Doc, and he too seemed somewhat perplexed.

“Is it usually like this here?”

“Eh, kinda.” Simmons shook his shoulders. “The smell of spirits never really leaves this place. Sort of like a beach after a lightning strike, a bit acidic and metallic. But I grew up here, I’m used to it.”

“Same here.” Doc chimed in, his hand raised, happy to be involved.

“So it’s another weird mage thing that doesn’t make any sense to normal people?” Tucker shook his head.

Wash grimaced slightly and couldn't help but agree somewhat. _Mages are another thing entirely_. _I’ll quite happily stick with not being able to talk to energy any day._

“Ugh.” Church repeated and shook his head. “I think the hair inside my nose is going to fret away.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad, you spoiled blue baby.” Simmons muttered and started to walk again, getting ahead of Doc. Doc yelped and sprinted forward so that he could lead the Guild further forward.

The sun was much closer to setting than was comfortable, and yet the Guild seemed stuck in their pace, the very ground vehemtly fighting against them.

“Mother of the Sky.” Wash muttered to himself as he, yet again, stumbled into a treacherous part of the path. The ground seemed to suck his foot in, trying to swallow him whole. He steeled himself, steadying himself on the other foot, and pulled.

His foot was freed from the treacherous mud, and he continued on, muttering “Mother of the Sky.” A few times more for added measure.

He couldn’t smell whatever arcane horror that had gripped the mages so tight (especially Church, whom Washington suspected must’ve grown up amidst flowers and perfumes since he complained so much.), but decaying matter never had a pleasant smell. Add in the recent information on the… decaying… _things_ known to be walking the bogs at nights and every damn hair on his body stood rigid. At first he was determined to not show any fear, walking tall and surely -though it did lead him to promptly marsh onto wet peat patches which left him sinking. Now however, he walked with his hand on his hilt, walking stick prodding any land that didn’t seem safe to walk on.

It was almost pathetically obvious who was used to this sort of land and who wasn’t. The danger of sinking didn’t seem to bother Simmons or Doc, for they held a pleasant conversation about their respective hometowns whilst hopping across dry sedge grass like it was nothing. Grif seemed less than pleased, but kept up with the two of them at the forefront by following Simmons so close he almost made him trip every time the mage stopped for a second.

Tucker’s light build made it possible for him to cross the wetter patches without sinking. Washington cursed himself for insisting on wearing his heavier fitted chestplate over his hauberk, the added weight dragging him down more than what he was used to. Behind the freelancer, at least ten feet away from everyone else, walked the Red leader muttering to himself. His sword was out and swinging at anything that might seem suspicious or haunted.

Wash decided it was best to lead the older man to his delirium, simply making sure that he was constantly out of range for the swinging sword.

Further behind walked the remaining three, Franklin, Caboose and Church.

The large mountain-like wall of muscle had no doubt some trouble navigating through the bog. The petite blonde Seer walked in front, his simple cloth armor and small stature carried him across the treacherous lands rather easily. His friend though…. Not so much.

Though Caboose had forgone the heavy steel armor (not listening to Simmons’ words until Church concurred.) and wandered the lands in a simpler odd combination of cloth and leather pieces _(“For the love of the King, Caboose! Why the hells can’t you just fit into normal armor?!”),_ his heavy frame made the travel difficult.

Church growled on occasion and Wash could see the battle mage’s head pop up behind the marauder, glaring and adding snarky comments. Despite that, Wash couldn’t help but smile gently at how the mage walked behind the marauder like a mother chaperoning a clumsy child. He _could_ abandon the marauder and the Seer and catch up with the others, but something kept him there. He wasn’t as hateful as he tried to be, rudeness be damned.

Caboose seemed unfazed, smiling and happily blabbing away whilst occasionally sinking to his death like it was nothing. Franklin cheered him on happily, yet squeaking like a terrified mother at times when they found a patch that gave way to Caboose’s weight.

They were moving slow. Far too slow for their comfort. The last strands of sunlight bathed the bogs in a light that would’ve been beautiful if it wasn’t for the terrifying fact that the night was approaching. And with the night came the dead.

“Should we light torches?” He asked the mages at front.

Both of them shook their heads simultaneously.

“Torches don't scare them off, it only draws them in for some reason. It only makes it more obvious we’re not of the marsh.” Simmons said, though Wash had no idea what that meant. “If you need light you have to ask Church or me to light veilballs-“

“Oh, that’s way too easy.” Snorted Tucker.

“-So that we blend in with the spirits. They won’t attack us then… y’know… probably.”

Sudden horror gripped at Wash. Whatever part of him that doubted the legends of the Ghostcliffs nocturnal spectral nightmares snuffed out like a candle.

 _So that we blend in with the spirits_.

“This is certainly not what I had imagined when accepting this quest.” He sighed and his body shuddered.

“Preach, brother.” Tucker smiled, his grey eyes still crinkling with humor. Nothing fazed him, it seems.

Simmons stood on his toes and looked past them to see the remaining three slagging behind.

“Oy, keep up. You don’t want to be without us natives when the night hits, trust me.”

“Simmons, don’t be like that.” Franklin scolded him from afar. “Caboose can’t walk that fast, he’s…”

“Heavy as shit.” Church chimed in.

Franklin gasped and his hand gripped his chest.

“Rude!” He said and turned to Caboose, who tried to get the mud off of him by sticking his foot into more mud. “Don’t listen to him, Caboose. You’re the perfect weight for your body type.”

“What was that, Princess Lemon cake?” The marauder didn’t seem to have heard, now stuck with his foot in the mud again.

Church stared up into the orange sky, arms out. “Gods, spare me this sickly-sweet nonsense and strike me already!”

“I thought you Potentians didn’t have gods, o faithless man.” Grif’s comment was heavy with sarcasm.

“I’m nicking Simmons’s for this smiting. I’m not picky!”

“Stoooop.” Simmons groaned. “Church, we’re gonna need veilballs- _Tucker stop laughing_ \- on your end of the group, can you do that? I’ll light some in the front. We need to get going. Like now.”

“Woah, hey now, no!” Grif turned to the red-haired mage. “Didn’t you just say that we should _not_ let the grumpy bastard use magic here? Possession-risks and all that?”

Simmons turned to Church with an exasperated look, the other mage responding with a casual roll of his eyes.

“This is neutral magic.” Said Simmons. “Defensive and offensive magic is off limits for now. Any magic that has no battle purpose works fine, it isn’t chaotic enough for a spirit to slip in-“

He stopped, his mouth open and eyes glaring daggers at the hunter. Grif was air-writing imaginary notes. He looked up at Simmons with feigned interest.

“No, please go on, professor. I want to know everything.”

“…Just…Church, go ahead.”

Church didn’t respond, but seemed to have gotten the message. He closed one hand over the other, cupping the air gently. In between his fingers, a small ghostly ball of light seemed to form. He muttered something beneath his breath and opened his hand, the ball of light flew up into the sky. It seemed almost sentient, happily bouncing a few feet above them like a happy puppy.

Caboose, giant child that he was, cooed at it and tried to catch it. The ball flew away and settled above Wash. The light almost stung.

Another ball of light circled the three in front. Simmons discreetly removed Grif’s hand as he attempted to poke it.

“Let’s go.” He said and kept going, the ball of light following its master happily.

Church’s veilball seemed to dislike the top of Wash’s head and now kept itself a few feet in front of the marauder, who stomped after it happily, trying to get the arcane object to pay attention to him.

“I’m gonna name mine… Apples.”

Wash bit his cheeks to not laugh at the absurdity.

The journey continued, dull and tiring and seemingly never-ending. Wash’s chestplate felt heavier by the second, and his boots had been filled to the brim with murky green water. Every step brought forth a sickening slosh, every breath seemed poisoned with whatever stench permeated their surroundings.

The sky bled, the last light slowly and ominously disappearing. It felt like a ticking bomb, and whenever they turned a corner, Wash had hoped that Doc would exclaim ‘there it is!’ as a hut appeared amongst the marshes. Alas, no such luck.

Wash jogged up to the two natives.

“Are-“

“If I hear another ‘are we there yet’ I swear to the gods…” Simmons muttered while Doc looked back to face him.

“We’re not _too_ far off, but the night is going to hit us before that.” Doc glanced around nervously. “Keep your wits about you.”

“Wonderful.” Wash gritted his teeth. “I do hope that your teacher is worth the danger, Doc.”

“He is!” Doc squealed as he turned on his heels and continued forward.

Wash shook his head and pushed his hood further up. The air felt thinner than usual, and as he rubbed his nose on his sleeve to rid himself of the snot-

_Wait._

He wheeled back, looking for Church. The warning from Simmons, the constant check-ups about possession and how the healer shouldn’t BY ANY MEANS use his magic, had gotten Wash even more on his toes then what he usually was.

The mage in question had given up on chaperoning Caboose and walked not too far back from Wash, exchanged words with Tucker.

“Church!” Wash warned. The healer looked up, brows ever furrowed and angry, but this time he actually looked somewhat surprised.

“What?”

“It’s getting colder. _Fast_. Just to check-” He leaned in a bit closer. His breath turned white as it left his mouth. “Is that you? Your magic leaves a cold air, I've learned.”

Church groaned. “You _really_ need to chill with the paranoia. I’m not possesse-“

“No, I mean- gods. Are you the one who’s making it colder?”

Wash didn’t know what he would’ve preferred. Had the mage accidentally released magic, it might open the door for possession (that is to say if he understood what little Simmons had told him about it) but if it wasn’t him…

Church turned to Tucker with raised eyebrows. “I can’t sense anything, but I’m pretty damn immune to the cold. You?”

Tucker didn’t respond, his eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He took a step back, his eyes focused on something behind Wash’s shoulder. As Wash turned, he could hear the distinct swing of a sword being released from its sheath.

“Oh shit.” Whispered the mage, and Wash’s heart stopped for a second.

The mist laid thick over the marshes, the peats and tufts of yellow grass blowing gently in an eerily quiet wind. The dusk painted the marsh dark and immense, a seeming never-ending sea of grey, unforgiving nature. The few trees to their right, tall and lanky and a poor excuse of a forest, stood pitchblack and ominous. All except for a few pits of light, shining so bright it could’ve been mistaken for stars. Then they blinked, and then Wash realized they were eyes.

He fumbled for his sword and struggled to unsheathe it as he heard Church whistle to get the attention of those in front. Caboose was next to him in an instant, Franklin clutching his friend in terror.

“What is that?” He whimpered.

“The dead.” Simmons’ voice didn’t carry the same fear, but it was laced with trepidation. “Be careful, keep walking.”

“Surely, you must be joking?” Wash seethed, his eyes never leaving the hollow, shining holes of the creature staring back at them from the tree line.

“It’s not alone, we need to move.” Simmons whispered back and he snapped his fingers. His veilball disappeared, Church’s following suite soon after.

The party bathed in darkness, their breaths ragged and rough.

“I’m scared.” Caboose whined. “Why is it dark?”

“Quiet.” Simmons hushed him. “Grif, you’re in the lead! Just follow us, watch out for any lights. When it’s too many, then we’ll fight. But for now, we run.”

 _When it’s too many_ , Wash thought. Not if, but when. Fighting the dead was now an inevitability, only how soon it would commence was the question.

Wash could hear the sound of Simmons and Grif jogging on ahead, and he blindly followed. He stepped into more pits of mud, the pacing rapid and slightly panicked. He looked around him constantly, waiting for a pair of white eyes to appear near his feet, to drag him down into the darkness and join the dead.

His hand was clenched around his sword, his brow sweating with exhaustion and fear.

 _We shouldn’t have come here_ , he thought.

Water sloshed right next to him, and a pair of eyes stared into his soul as a hand shot out to grasp his ankle. Wash screamed as it felled him, and as he landed on his back, the water soiling his armor, the beast came from the darkness and jumped on him.

Claws teared at his arms as it held him, a thing that might’ve once been a human, but as if though it had been horribly mutated and mutilated. Its skin was as black as tar, stretched around skeletal limbs. The arms and legs were too long and twisted in an almost spiderlike form, the body low to the ground. Something black, putrid and horrible, spilled out of its mouth as it opened it to reveal a disturbingly human set of teeth, no fangs of a feral beast, but a human turned into something demonic.

Wash screamed as he tried to combat the grip it had on his arms, but it only growled and wailed.

As Caboose’s hammer swung on it, the creature cried as its limbs cracked and crumbled beneath the weight.

“Get up, fencer!” Church yelled and pulled him up by the arm. Wash could feel blood running down his arm, the puncture wounds from the thing’s grip a dull ache.

“Do we run?!” He said to Simmons and Doc.

“No, there’s too many.” Simmons seethed. Orbs of hauntingly white light popped up from the marshes, moving closer by every second. “We have to fight.”

The Reds and Blues stood in a circle, their backs to each other, weapons at the ready.

“Donut, hide behind Caboose, don’t leave his side. Church, stay out of battle if you can. _No_ magic from you whatsoever, got it?” Simmons whispered.

“Stop getting your asses beat and I won’t need to heal you.” The mage growled back, his shoulders bumping into him.

“Quiet.” Wash growled back.

It was haunting, only the small groans and wails from the dead creatures echoed around them. They stood, ready, and waited.

Wash felt the blood trickling down now, and the black, putrid liquid that had gushed from the creature’s mouth felt almost as if it was fretting away at his armor. He counted twenty pairs of eyes, at the least, but it was possible more of them were soon to wake. Next to him, Tucker breathed in heavy, long bursts, as if to calm himself down. It was oddly relaxing, and Wash felt himself mimic him, trying to focus.

A noise to his right, and Sarge’s sword came swinging down on a creature’s head as it charged.

And with that, chaos struck. An enraged pack of dead came running towards them, their long limbs clawing at the living. As soon as he cut one down, another one came running, shrieking and jumping. Tucker knifed one in the throat as its grip grasped Donut’s arm. The Seer shrieked and clutched Caboose’s waist, the marauder’s hammer bludgeoning three with one fell swoop.

“By the mountains, how many are there?!” Wash screamed.

“Damnit, we should’ve run!” Simmons cried out. “This won’t work!”

One charged, got decapitated by a swift blade, then it fell, only to rise again. Wash’s blood ran cold.

“We can’t kill them!” He yelled to the Simmons. “What do we do?!”

Only the clashing of swords and shields became the response, the Simmons meeting his eyes, shaking his head. There was nothing he could do. To burn all the monsters, to use all that magic, he’d get possessed in a second.

“I can’t use my flames!” He responded. “We’ll need an explosion, and none of us carry bombs. We don’t have a-“

“Explosives?!” Tucker cried out. “Well, why didn’t you just fucking say so?!”

Wash’s world slowed down for a second when all of a sudden Tucker seemed to disappear into the darkness, running straight towards ten dead charging at them.

“What are you doing?!”

He didn’t respond, only grabbed something from his belt and tossed it towards the monsters. A round object, small, with a lit wick sparking.

 _Oh_.

The bomb hit the ground just before the creatures, and the explosion lit up the sky so fast it felt like fireworks. The sudden brightness made Wash’s eyes water, and the smell of charred flesh burned his nose.

Tucker procured another bomb from his belt and tossed it, the others left to stare in shock as explosion after explosion hit the charging monsters, their charred bodies falling down and staying down.

Tucker turned, and it was, Wash had to admit, a magnificent sight. His grotesquely turquoise cloak was a stark contrast to the crackling fire behind him, the explosion leaving patches of grass aflame. A triumphant smile painted his lips, and his light grey eyes seemed terrifyingly vibrant.

“This,” he said, tucking his last bomb back onto his belt. “Is why I was second in command, _bitches!”_

Wash felt laughter bubble up in his throat. He let his sword arm fall, his whole body aching. Scattered sighs and deep breaths were heard from the Reds and Blues. Franklin fell to the ground, taking a deep breath.

“That was scary.”

“We’re not out of the clear yet.” Muttered Simmons. “The marshes are filled with the dead, we have to keep moving.”

“Uuh, you’re welcome?” said Tucker, utterly offended.

“Where did you even get those?” Grif asked, grabbing a few scattered arrows to put back into his quiver. “You’re a rogue, not a Freelancer; you're not supposed to carry bombs. Since when did you-?”

“Since I _stole_ them from Tex, duh.” Tucker rolled his eyes, somewhere in the darkness Wash heard Church snort a laugh.

“A rogue, through and through” Wash sighed and rubbed his head, not quite pleased with the more larcenous of the Guild ranks. As far as he knew, Tex was the only on who carried bombs after the incident where York lost the sight in one eye, _thank you Maine and Wyoming_. Efforts had apparently been made in erasing bombs and explosives from all Freelancer’s gear load, but Tex had apparently only smiled and said ‘ _come and take them’_. And thus, she had kept them.

“It’s in the job description, dumbass.” Tucker winked, and Wash felt himself redden as anger flared up inside him.

“Save it.” Church groaned and hit Wash in the chest as he opened his mouth to respond. “Let’s go!”

Wash turned to Tucker.

“After you, my Lord.” Tucker bowed mockingly. Wash growled and turned on his heels to follow the rest of the party.

Simmons and Church looked at each other and nodded. A silent whisper in the Scanian arcane tongue, and the veilballs were lit anew.

“Apples!” Caboose exclaimed happily and chased one of them yet again, as if there had not been a battle at all.

“Caboose, stay in the group, stop running away!” Franklin cried worriedly as the large marauder bounced away.

“I am not running away, Princess strawberry tarte.” Caboose said as he ran away.

Wash sighed as the large man’s foot tripped on a tuft of grass and he fell face down into the marshes. His head popped up, spitting mud and murky water.

“I am alive.”

“Damnit.” Sarge muttered, shaking his fist at the sky.

“Wash, help him up!” Franklin poked at his arm. “You’re the only one strong enough.”

“Spare me the flattery, Seer Franklin” Wash muttered and went forward to assist the marauder.

“Hey, grey person.” Caboose mumbled into the mud as Wash approached.

“I’m going to regret this but; yes?”

Wash grabbed Caboose’s arm first, slowly but surely releasing it from its murky, smelly prison. Caboose shook his head, mud and sludge hitting Wash’s face.

“Hey!” He cried out.

“Does water have eyes?” Caboose whispered.

Wash looked up. The veilball’s light was an eerie white and green, and its light was weak. But a head, black as tar, peaked up from beneath the waters. It’s eyes, milky white and shiny, stared at them, from a mere meter away.

“Get up slowly.” Wash whispered, reaching for his sword.

Caboose tried, but only his arm had gotten free. He slipped, and the beast charged.

And Wash, his mind barren of anything to do, reached for the beast’s throat, hoping to throttle it. He had to protect his teammates, that’s all the rang through his head as adrenaline pumped through his veins.

The beast coughed and spat as its’ throat got caught. It turned, shrieked in Wash’s face, and thrust its claws into his abdomen.

Pain seared through so quickly and so strongly he nearly blacked out. A small, logical part of his brain kept thinking ‘ _what is bleeding, where am I hurt, is it anything vital?’_ but the rest of his brain seemed to almost seep out with the tireless gush of blood dripping down to the ground. His hand was clutched over the wound, uselessly trying to keep the pressure on.

Somewhere in his peripheral he saw the metal head of Caboose’s sledgehammer crushing the creature that had assaulted him. A hand grabbed his face, screaming something incomprehensible, and he passed out to grey eyes veiled in panic.

*****

“Oh fuck, fencer!”

“Shit, Washington!”

Tucker raced forward, his hands holding the former Freelancer’s head tightly. Church settled in next to him immediately, knees sliding in the mud as he approached. Sarge issued a command, and the Reds stood on watch, circling their wounded. Doc shimmied passed the Reds and sat opposite to Church.

Tucker turned Wash’s face to him as his eyes went distant, his eyelids closing.

 _That’s not good, right?_ He turned to Church for confirmation as the mage removed Wash’s hand to survey the injury.

“Oh fuck, that probably pierced the liver, that’s not good- Tucker, keep the pressure on!”

“I’m supposed to put my _hand_ there?”

“No, both hands-” As Tucker went to put his hands on the wound, all while fighting a wave of nausea, the healer stopped him. “-With something clean, you dolt. Take these rags.”

He procured rags from a pouch, putting them on the wound with a pair of squeaky-clean pliers. Tucker gulped as the rags were instantly stained with red, but he put his hands on the wound.

“This is a lot cleaner than your injuries at least.” He muttered.

“And a lot deeper.” Church muttered back. “Simmons, bandages! Donut, check his breathing! The rest of you, keep an eye out. There’s no way we’re moving him until he’s stable. Doc-“

Doc turned nervously to the healer. “A-aye?”

“Moss works as dressing, right?”

“Yes!” He squealed in panic as he put his bag down to rummage through it. “If I’ve saved some antiseptic _Sphagnum_ that might just do- there!”

As the professionals kept on working, Tucker turned to see Wash’s face, now placed gently between Donut’s hands as the Seer tried to wake him from his state, checking his breathing and looking at his pupils. The wound had gone deep with one claw, with minor gashes from the other claws. It didn’t look all that bad from the start, but the amount of blood seeping out was terrifying.

 _Breathe, just breathe and keep the pressure on_.

Church and Doc were arguing over something, and Tucker’s hands were removed as they tried to dress the wound. He sat there, hands outstretched, fighting a small sense of panic.

_He won’t be able to survive without magic, right?_

He caught the eyes of Church, as if they had been thinking the same thing. Church bit his inner cheek, looked at the poorly dressed wound, and took a deep breath.

“How far are we from the cabin?”

“T-two hours, just about.” Doc responded.

“Good enough, out of my way.” The mage rolled up his sleeve and flexed his hands and fingers.

“Are you out of your mind?!” Simmons grabbed the healer’s hands. “You’ll get possessed!”

“And this idiot nobleman will die if we do nothing. We’re out of options, get off of me!”

“We don’t have the materials for a cleansing, Church!” Doc cried out. He pointed to the crushed, dark beast trying to crawl away as Caboose continuously swung at it. “ _This_ is your fate if we don’t get you to my master in time.”

Church turned to Tucker with raised eyebrows.

 _Should I do it?_ Meant that look, as he’d learn to interpret his grumpy friend over the years.

Tucker’s heart was racing, looking down at the nobleman whose life was seeping out of him slowly but surely, and then to the dark, possessed beasts around them.

“Don’t die, bitch.” Tucker responded, a side smile gracing his lips. “You’d make for a really annoying living dead.”

Church rolled his eyes, flexed his fingers and – before Simmons could stop him – put his glowing hands down on the wound.


	28. Claws & Teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings friends~  
> Let me prefix this by saying please look at the updated tags. There is an add-on there that is specifically for this chapter. Stuff gets nasty!

** The Backwash swamps, Nochkit **

_Heaven is very loud,_ Wash thought. _And somewhat cold. And smelly_.

His vision, black from his presumed demise, started to flicker back. In a few blinks, the darkness gave way to spots of colors, of a beautiful light grey and a wide array of others. Two blinks more, he started seeing shapes, and sounds came blasting into his ears. One more blink, and he found himself staring into the eyes of Tucker.

_I am not dead._

“W-what hap-“ His voice came out a mere whisper, drowned in the yells and shouts and arguments somewhere in the distance.

“Shut up, Wash.” Tucker said, pressing a hand to his forehead. “You’re gonna be fine. Just stay still.”

Wash’s head felt like it had been impaled by an icebolt. All his thoughts felt sluggish and odd. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say he was drunk again.

 _Where are we, what happened, why am I hurt?_ Rang through his head. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He raised his arm to try and get the attention of someone, anyone, but his whole body seemed unable to move. A warm feeling slipped through his bloodstream, starting from his abdomen and reaching upwards towards his head. He tried again, and this time his hand got a steady grip on Tucker’s absurd teal cloak.

“Hey, what-“ He looked down at him. His hand came back to Wash’s forehead, spreading warmth to his face. He felt as if though he regained feeling in his limbs, and Wash felt his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“What-“ He tried again, but Tucker put his hand on his mouth, smothering the words.

“Didn’t I tell you to keep your fucking mouth shut, Wash?” He laughed, the sound short and desperate. He shook his head. “Idiot.”

Wash sighed and let the nice, warm feeling of Tucker’s hand warm his insides. Slowly but surely, his strength returned to him, his abdomen no longer aching with a dull pain. His hearing, that before seemed to hone in on Tucker’s voice alone, finally expanded and he turned away from him to catch the loud arguments to his right.

“What’s going on?” He said, his voice raspy.

To his right, Church, Doc and Simmons were arguing loudly while the rest of the team stood watch around them. Church’s hand held on firmly to a dressed wound on Wash’s stomach-

Suddenly, a terrible influx of memories washed over him, and the feeling of the dead beast’s claws seemed to have returned to his abdomen, as if they were still embedded there.

He moved, and Church finally broke his monologue of yelling to return to his patient.

“Fuck off, stay still. I didn’t get my ass possessed just so you can die of shock.”

_Wait, what? Possession? What’s going on?_

Wash blinked, and Church’s sentence echoed in his mind until he realized what that had meant.

“You healed me.” He gasped. “Are you insane?”

Church’s light-green eyes seemed impossibly cold as he raised a dark eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”

“Are you-“ Wash sat up on his elbows. He winced slightly but felt ok. The strength seemed to return to him eerily fast, and before he could take another breath, he felt entirely whole and invigorated again. “-Are you… like… you?”

“Yeah, though I guess we'll see how long that lasts. You’ll start to notice, believe me.” Church muttered and stood up. “Let’s move out.”

A pair of enormous hands grabbed Wash’s armpits, and he was heaved up by Caboose.

“I am sorry, Mr. Washingtub.” The giant man whispered sadly. “You were hurt because of me.”

Wash turned around, hand stretched to grab his shoulder. He had reach up quite far in order to do so. The marauder looked at the ground and sniffed.

“It’s ok, Caboose.” Wash said.

Caboose looked at him, giant blue eyes somewhat teary. “Is Church going to be ok?”

Wash turned to the healer, who had just shooed Doc away as he tried to come close and look at his pupils. Besides being somewhat grumpier because of all the attention, he really didn’t seem that different. Then again Wash had no idea how possession works, it wasn’t like it was a common thing on Potentian soil.

“He’s fine.” _I think_.

Caboose nodded. Franklin snuck in under his arm.

“Hey there, big guy. You did well.” Said the Seer, his voice soft and gentle. A small smile painted Caboose’s lips and he petted Franklin’s soft, blonde curls.

“Thank you, lemon cake.”

Wash nodded towards the Seer and turned back to the chaos upfront. As he jogged towards the rest of the Guild, Tucker placed a hand against his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

His hand felt weirdly warm, the same feeling when Church puts his hand on him to heal him. Wash looked down, as if he’d see the glowing healing light emerge from his fingers. Nothing. It just felt warm. Maybe he was colder than he expected.

“Yes?” He said and locked eyes with Tucker’s.

“Thanks.”

Wash’s brow furrowed. “For what?”

“For saving this idiot from having his eyes gauged out.” Tucker nodded towards Caboose. He let his hand fall and turned around to join the rest of the Guild up front.

Wash felt the strange warmth still. He scratched his hand at it as he walked up.

“Hey, Church?”

“What is it, fencer?” The healer turned around.

Wash tried to not scan the mage, to look for signs of possession… or anything strange. So far, he still seemed sane.

“Thank you. This wouldn’t have been a pretty place to die.”

Church huffed, a puff of white escaping his mouth. “Thanks for the reminder of my untimely death coming up in a few minutes.”

“A-apologies. I didn’t mean-“

“Yeah, I know you didn’t mean it.” He rolled his eyes, a mocking smile on his lips. “We can exchange pleasantries later, Davie. ‘Lest I perish in this frigidly unpleasant marsh from hell, yes?”

He made a perfect curtsy and turned around.

“Did I sound _too_ noble for your taste again, mage?” Wash muttered as he walked behind him. “Wait, _Davie?”_

The mage turned his head to look at him over his shoulders. “Yes?”

“How did you know my old nickname? I hated that nickname, how-“ Wash went through a collection of nobility whom Church might’ve met. It was only at balls and banquets his noble friends liked to tease him with that name. “York told you, didn’t he?”

Church sighed and turned around. “Right.”

Wash muttered a curse to York underneath his breath. A dull ache entered his head. He tucked his cloak closer and walked faster.

With the moon painting the lands with an eerily white light, Wash saw enemies all around him. It was far too easy to see the dead’s white milky eyes in every drop of reflected moonlight on the water surfaces. Twenty minutes passed in silence, every ear hearing phantom wail of the monsters lurking about, every eye catching mirages in the dead of night.

Every second Wash’s eyes didn’t focus on the dead of night, he watched the back of the mage, waiting for something. His hand was balanced on his sword hilt, though he had no idea whose blood was going to paint the steel.

He grabbed Simmons as the mage stopped to take some water from his skin.

“How does it look?”

“Huh?”

“…Possession. Help me ease my mind a bit, I’ve spent the last ten minutes picturing his eyes bursting into flame.”

“It’s starting to become preferable to the _real_ Church, ey?” Simmons scoffed and rolled his eyes. “In truth, we only know a little. It depends on the spirit.”

“But he… _Is_ he?”

“Possessed? If a mage uses a high amount of energy for either offensive or defensive magic, like _healing someone from near death_ , a spirit will try its best to slip in. Of course, it requires a place where the energy is already corrupted, or where a large amount of people have died. This place, in this marsh… this is where the Dragon Lords of _my_ country faced the Nine Fireslayers of Potentia. There are corpses _everywhere._ He definitely had a spirit slip in there when he summoned energy, believe me.”

“…That does not inspire confidence.”

Simmons sighed. “I know. He’s a madman, really.”

“That doesn’t answer my original question though. What does it look like? Shouldn't he be... I don't know, acting differently? Like an entirely different person?”

“That's more if you get possessed by a person who is... well, living I suppose. When a dead person, a _spirit_ that is, slips in it's different. I’ve only read of spirit possession. But those accounts often tells of… they spit black, just like the dead of the marsh. Their eyes turn milky white. They begin to claw at their own bodies, screaming of something from the inside clawing at them. One woman killed herself before becoming fully possessed, opening her own guts with her nails, screaming about how her very blood seemed to burn. But they all end up the same, skin as black as tar, their fingers long and clawed and-”

“I. CAN. _HEAR._ YOU.” Bellowed the healer up front, just behind Doc leading the way. The herbalist jumped at the sudden scream, and both Simmons and Wash did the same.

“The possessed dead often have heightened hearing.” Simmons said. “You wouldn’t happen to feel like you can hear a bit more than usual?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Church growled and turned around, grabbing Doc’s arm. “C’mon, off you go. Hurry up to your master.”

“Were you joking?” Wash muttered to Simmons, suddenly very aware of the volume of his voice.

“Not at all.” Simmons whispered back, scrunching his nose. “This isn’t good. Keep an eye on him.”

“On it.” Wash said it as the same time as another voice from his left. Wash leaped in the air and almost bumped into Simmons. Tucker just raised an eyebrow to them.

“He’s _my_ friend to keep track of. Why don’t you paranoid people stick with the children?” He nodded back towards Caboose and Donut, and then ran up to catch up to Doc and Church.

"I should-" Wash gestured towards the duo. "I will just... yes."

He left Simmons and jogged up to Church and Tucker.

"I'm just saying-" Tucker started before Church cut in sharply;

"I will icebolt you in the eyeball if you keep mother henning me, Tucker."

"Fucking hell, man. Would it kill you to let me worry a little bit?" Tucker grabbed the mage's arm and turned him around to him. "I don't know how this shit works. So, it would be _really_ great if you could stop being an ass for a moment and actually explain shit."

"It's just weird having everyone hovering over me-" Church looked around for a second and locked eyes with Wash. The mage snarled. "Yeah, like that."

"Talk us through it then." Wash tried, and walked up to Church's left side, letting the mage walk in the middle. "So that we'll stop _mother henning_ you."

Church sighed audibly and rolled his eyes, his mouth a fine line.

"You saved my life." Wash pointed out. His hand fell on his own abdomen, remembering the exact spot where the beast had pierced him. For a second he considered putting his hand on Church's shoulder but decided not to. He wasn't exactly known for being very keen on physical contact. "Let us try and save yours."

"Always so dramatic, David." Church muttered. Wash watched the mage bit his inner cheek and his eyes dart around as if considering something. Then he rolled his shoulders and stood up straight. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

"How do you feel?" Wash cut in immediately as Tucker opened his mouth to ask something. The rogue glared at the fencer.

"Cold." Church responded curtly.

Wash groaned and let his head rest in his hand for a second. "Perhaps something that doesn't go for _all_ of us."

"I'm a cryomancer, Wash." Church argued. He glared at Wash, bundling his cloak closer to him. "We don't feel cold the same way you do. Hell, I haven't shivered since.... before becoming a Battle Mage."

"Oh." Wash said. So it _was_ significant. 

"Yeah, oh-" Church stopped immediately, almost flinching as Tucker gently put the back of his hand on Church's throat. "What the hell are you doing?"

"You are _really_ fucking warm. Also your heartbeat is kinda all over the place."

"Yeah, not a big fan of people touching me." Church leaned away from him, although he seemed to have forgotten where Wash was. He caught the grumpy mage by the arms.

"Steady." Wash said. Then his eyebrows furrowed. Heat essentially radiated off the mage. At first mention, the sensation of cold and the warm skin reminded him of fevers and the like but this was nothing like it. It was quite an odd thing the feel warmth coming from the cryomancer, who usually sent a cold wind everywhere he went. "You are quite warm actually."

"Right?" Tucker said, his tone a little bit too light and happy. A pang of guilt hit Wash's chest. Then he furrowed his brows again as the smaller man suddenly embraced the mage, to the latter's utter contempt.

"Tucker what the hell?!" Church's voice reached that high pitch level again, and the rest of the guild turned around to identify the screech.

"You are like a furnace!" Tucker said. He burrowed his nose near Church's neck. "Hey Wash, come try this."

"I'll... pass." Wash said, looking between the two with a slight discomfort he couldn't quite decipher.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Grif said from the front. "Is he going all possessed and stuff?"

"Grif, get your ass over here. He's warm as hell."

"For real?"

“No.” Church raised a hand as Grif took a step close.

“But I’m so fucking cold.” Grif complained. “Don’t be such a baby and embrace physical contact.”

Church’s lip curled, as if ready to snarl something, but a sudden shiver took over and he leaned over, taken over by a violent cough. Wash held one arm while Tucker held the other. His breath rattled, almost as if he was choking, but he waved Wash away as Wash moved to assist him further.

“I’m fine.” He croaked. The healer spat, but a line of spit, pitch black like tar, got stuck and slowly descended from his lip down his chin.

“That’s disgusting.” Tucker commented.

“And very bad news.” Church muttered as he rubbed the spit away with the back of his hand. He looked up, yanking his arms away from Tucker and Wash, and yelled to the front, “How far away are we?”

“You want everyone to hear you?!” Came the furious whisper as Simmons stalked back through the marsh to be able to talk to them. “Have you lost your- oh.”

Church showed his hand, covered in light streak of tar-like spit. “Got any guesses on how long I’m gonna last before I start nibbling on Tucker’s arm?”

Simmons gave Church a scrutinizing once-over as Tucker moved his arm away. “This isn’t my strong suit I’m afraid. Two hours usually, but it depends on the constitution and the mental fortitude of the person, really…But…Hold on.”

Simmons waved at the others to join, and before long they all stood huddled in a ring, shielding each other from the cold winds.

“If we meet another group of…”

“Evil tar people.”

“Sure, Caboose, yes. If we come across more evil tar people, someone has to go with Church and get him out of here. Doc, you’ll go-“

Doc’s panicked “Excuse me?” and Church’s exasperated “Hell no” echoed in the circle for a few seconds before Simmons continued,

“Doc, _you’ll go_ , we need someone who knows the way there. Caboose, I get the feeling we won’t be able to separate you two, so you go with him. If he starts to become violent and aggressive, restrain him.”

“Best friend time!” Caboose exclaimed happily, only to shrink when the rest of the guild shushed him quickly.

“Best friend time.” He repeated softly to himself.

“The rest of us, we deal with the enemies and try to meet up as fast as we can. Everyone on board?”

A chorus of ‘yes’ went through the group, and they continued on quietly, the scene turning dim and the mood tense.

Church’s cough turned progressively more aggressive, and a fit of coughs would force the group to a stop, weapons out and ready for battle should some more dead wake from the violent upheaves and hacks.

Wash watched the mage like a hawk, and steadied his arm when he felt unsteady. A slip had made Church almost fall headfirst into a puddle, and now both Wash and Tucker held a hand on his arms, guiding him forward.

“This fucking sucks.” The mage rasped, his voice turning hoarse and forced. “Can’t die like this, Allison would be so pissed.”

Wash just grunted in response, his face twitching from a dull ache that entered and exited his head for a few seconds.

As Church spat and dry heaved, Wash brought forth his waterskin.

“Here-“ He started, but Church’s hand shot out and slapped it out of his hands. It splashed as it went into the water, but Church didn’t seem to notice it much.

“No water, I’m fine.” He rasped.

“Church, you need water.” Wash pressed on. He let Church’s arm fall free and picked up his waterskin, now soiled with mud and dirt. “Please, you sound really bad. Maybe this will help-“

“I’m fine!” The mage spat and dug his nails into Wash’s forearm as he tried to bring the waterskin close. Tucker yelped and almost fell at the sudden outburst.

For someone who sounded like he was ten minutes from death, his grip was remarkably strong. Wash found himself wincing and even yelped when a sharp pain dug into his arm. At the sound, Church retracted his hand, as if burnt.

“Sorry.” Muttered the healer meekly, scratching his throat with his free hand. “It’s just… never mind, sorry.”

“Church…” Tucker chimed in weakly, but seemed to be at a surprising loss for words. Instead, he held onto his friend’s arm harder.

“It’s ok.” Wash said as calmly as he could. As he tucked the waterskin back into one of his belt hoops he found sharp, bleeding scratches on the arm Church had held. An ice-cold sensation hit him and without thinking about it he looked up to seek the eyes of Simmons, who seemed to know the subject best.

Simmons seemed ready at all times, and the trio barely had time to stop before the pyromancer swung back from his place up front to assess the mage once more. Franklin, Caboose and Sarge in the back soon caught up with them and joined the worried circle once more.

“What’s wrong?” Simmons asked.

“He keeps coughing like a fucking madman.” Tucker replied. “And he doesn’t want to drink water.”

“Hydrophobia.” Simmons responded quickly, nibbling on his bottom lip. “That’s the… second stage?”

“Third stage.” Doc corrected, as the group turned to him in surprise. “I am a _little_ knowledgeable, you know, don’t act so surprised.”

“Fantastic.” Church mumbled, his speech becoming slower and more slurred.

“Don’t speak.” Simmons said immediately. “Your throat will spasm if you try to swallow, so no liquid’s gonna pass your larynx right now. Try to-“

As he spoke, Church’s whole body jerked and he fell forward, a cascade of black spit escaping his mouth. The rest of the Guild stood in horror as he continued to spit out the liquid, but more seemed to form. After a few seconds he gave up and tried to cover his hand with his sleeve, his body jerking as he tried to hide the coughing. His eyes seemed glassy and feverish, and he blinked at a rapid speed.

“Try to… get as much of that black stuff out of you. I don’t know how or why that works, but it does. Don’t try to swallow, it won’t work. We’ll… get you through this.”

“The bedside manner of a potato.” Grif muttered. He stood about as far away from Church as he could, as if he was infectious.

 _Oh, right_.

“Simmons.” Wash brought forth his arm and tugged his sleeve up to show the wounds. “is this-?”

Simmons grabbed his arm and looked at it quickly. “From Church or from one of the monsters?”

Wash pointed discreetly at Church, who was far too busy trying to breathe through the dark foam collecting at the corners of his mouth. Tucker had found a clean cloth and tried to clean his chin from the dried spit.

“It’s fine, save from regular worries of infection. It doesn’t work like a virus, not like that.”

“Oh.” Wash suddenly felt somewhat ashamed that he treated Church more or less like a rabid dog for a second. But as he looked over at the mage, the image seemed remarkably similar to that of rabies. The foaming mouth, the jerky movements…

“Let’s go.” Wash said, urging the group on. “I’m not letting a member of our group die.”

 _This is my fault,_ his kept thinking. _He’s like this because of me, if he dies I’ll-_

He shook his head, trying to get rid of the malign thoughts. It wouldn’t help them in the slightest if he felt sorry for himself when he could be doing something to help.

With a surge of strength, Wash grabbed Church’s left arm again and they carried on.

The marshes seemed quiet save for Church’s varying noises of sickness and decay. Every now and then a violent cough would present itself, and the mage almost seemed to spew foam and saliva like his life depended on it. By now his chin was covered in dried spit, and his sleeves were streaked with black from him trying to rub it away from his mouth. Tucker had given up trying to clean it. The mage would scratch at his throat or at his abdomen on occasion, but it was nothing that hindered their progress. But it didn’t stop Wash from noting and categorizing every possible symptom.

“Are you ok, Church?” Caboose voice was filled with worry. He had jogged up to where they were walking and now kept a pace just a few feet behind the mage.

“Peachy keen, buddy.” Church responded sarcastically, his voice weak and raspy. In his peripheral, Wash saw Cabooses hand reach out as if to gently pat the mage’s head, but Franklin caught it and just shook his head.

“Can you-“ Wash turned back to look at the trio behind them. “Can one of you ask how long…?”

“I’m on it.” Franklin said, hopping across the grass and avoiding the puddles expertly. He returned a few seconds later.

“Not too long now, but…” He threw a sideway glance at Church, who was now more or less leaning on Tucker entirely, only shuffling his feet along uncoordinatedly. “… He is also not… Simmons told me to tell you if you see any discoloration?”

“Like the black spit?” Church muttered, his speech slow and slightly slurred but otherwise coherent.

They all jumped at that, Franklin yelping before covering his mouth quickly. 

“Fucking hell, man.” Tucker sighed with a slight panicked undertone. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m fucking dying, I get to do whatever the hell I want.” Church responded, although a violent fit of coughs caught him in the end. He moved away from Tucker and spat down on the ground again, wiping his mouth with his hand. His fingers and a part of the back of his hand seemed to be covered with the black liquid now. But as Tucker weakly tried to rub it off, it stayed on.

“Does that count?” Tucker asked.

“Is it just… his hand?” Wash grabbed the mage’s hand to scrutinize it further. The fingers were almost completely black, as if succumbing to frostbite and slowly dying. But his nails seemed sharper and longer like…

Wash could almost see the claws of the monster digging into his abdomen and he traced the line of his stomach absently. It almost caused him to dry heave, to see the slow transformation up close. He tried his best to shake it off, but it was eerie how fast the healer seemed to lose his humanity and give way to the lurking monster inside.

_If I hadn’t been so goddamn stupid!_

“I’m sorry.” He blurted out, his shame a constant pressure on his chest now. “This is all my fault.”

Church just shook his head and mumbled something incoherently.

“We don’t have time for this, Wash!” Tucker said. “Donut, grab Simmons. He wanted to know about some discoloration? This fucking counts.”

Simmons ran back from the front once more, leaving Grif and Doc waiting a few meters away. He didn’t say a word of greeting or asked anything, he only grabbed Church’s hand to scrutinize it. Then he let it go and laid his hand on Church’s forehead. Church only shrugged him off and looked down, shaking his head continuously.

“Church,” He said carefully. “Can you hear me?”

“I hear you.” Church muttered, distracted. He shrugged his arm away from Wash and kept scratching at his abdomen.

“Stop that.” Tucker grabbed at his hand, but Church shrugged it off.

“I’m fine.”

“Church, goddamnit-“

“It just _hurts_ , will you leave me the fuck alone?” the mage snarled, and the inhuman noise startled them all to silence.

They all turned to Simmons for guidance. The pyromancer stood in front of the healer, eyes wide and panicked, like he didn’t know what to do.

“Let us-“ Wash said quietly. “Let’s just keep walking.”

They all quietly agreed to it, and they kept walking.

After a few minutes of complete silence, Simmons dared to light a few more veilballs to guide them in the darkness. Church seemed to almost hiss and shrug away from it as it passed, his eyes screwed shut like it hurt him. Wash turned to Tucker for a second, just to see how the rogue held up. His mouth was a thin line, and his light grey eyes wide with worry. The furrow between his eyebrows seemed permanent, and a few drops of perspiration rolled down his throat as he swallowed nervously. For a second, they caught each other’s eyes. Wash wanted to smile but found no will to do it. So, he just watched, and eventually turned away.

“I see something!” Doc suddenly cried out, and the whole Guild shushed him as quickly as they could.

Doc’s excited clamor seemed to echo over the marshes. Simmons flickered with his hand, and the veilballs evaporated in a split second. They stood quietly, no one daring to utter a word or breathe too harshly. But the sudden noise didn’t seem to have startled anything.

Somewhere in the distance, Wash saw what looked like two rectangular spots of light-

 _Windows¸_ he realized. _We’re almost there!_

He gripped Church tighter, who only jerked away and muttered something. But he could’ve sworn he felt Tuckers eyes beaming at him in the dark.

 _We made it, we can save him_.

He heard Simmons sigh in relief, and the veilballs were lit once more. While they couldn’t see the house, parts of a path seemingly leading up to it was now visible for them. Here and there a tree would paint the path, almost like large beacons leading to the house. It was far away, certainly, but it was a distance they could clear easily.

“Can you see that, Church?” Tucker smiled and grabbed at Church’s chin to force him to look up. “It’s the house-“

Tucker fell silent suddenly, the next word caught in his throat. Wash turned to look at him, to figure out what was wrong, but his breath hitched when his eyes fell on the healer.

Besides his mouth, which was still disturbingly dark with a dash of dark liquid spilling out of it constantly, his eyes seemed…Eerie white and glossed over, like he was blind. And just like the possessed dead his eyes seemed to reflect the light, turning his eyes into white orbs staring unblinkingly into the darkness.

“Church, can you see me?” Tucker whispered.

Church seemed to slowly register that someone was speaking to him, his eyes distant and unfocused. But eventually, he sluggishly turned in Tucker’s direction. He blinked once, staring on a spot of Tucker’s chest. He coughed, a black line of drool dribbling down his chin. He just ignored it, grunted and started scratching at his abdomen feverishly.

Both Tucker and Wash cursed and went in to grab his arm, but he had turned freakishly strong and kept going. Wash’s stomach turned as he caught glimpse of the black talons on his right hand where his nails used to be, and whenever he scratched his stomach, blood welled up at the wound.

“Doc!” Tucker screamed, all thoughts of being quiet and discreet gone. “Get help, get help _NOW!”_

Doc paled when he turned around from his brisk pace to the scene of the mage almost scratching his stomach out. He yelped and ran as fast as he could, disappearing into the darkness.

“Oh fuck, his eyes.” Was all Grif could say, his mouth open in pure terror. “What the hell?”

“Caboose, get over here!” Wash gestured at the large man, who seemed almost frozen. Then he blinked and nodded. He jogged up to them and more or less leaned down to embrace the manic mage. Church tried to get free, his right hand tearing bleeding wounds on Caboose’s arms and chest. He didn’t speak, only jerked and frothed black tar down his chin, breathing heavily and erratically.

“It’s ok, Church.” Caboose whispered, teary-eyed. “It’s ok, you can scratch me if you want, I can take it. It’s ok, Church. You’re gonna be ok.”

“Church, can you hear me? Please, c’mon man?” Tucker meekly whispered. He walked up in front of the mage. Normally he had to look up quite far, but Caboose sat down on his knees and tried to force the mage down as well. Eventually, the mage’s legs caved in and he was brought down to his knees, where Caboose tried to lock him in by swinging his legs around him. Tucker leaned down and caught Church’s face between his hands, trying to get him to stop moving.

Caboose set his head on Church’s shoulder, as if nuzzling his neck, softly whispering apologies. The marauder’s arms were slick with blood now, Church trying to tear through the obstacles to continue to scratch through his own stomach.

Wash could only watch in horror and berate himself of his uselessness. The Reds stood around the panicking Blues, as if entranced by the horrific event taking place in front of them. Tears were streaming freely down Franklin’s eyes as he covered his mouth with his hands, jerking every now and then with a sob. Simmons eyes were darting back and forth, as if searching his mental library of anything he could do to help, as Grif stood far away and watched the scene in equal parts terror and disgust. Sarge dropped a hand on Franklin’s shoulder and held it there, turning his eyes away from the scene.

“Fencer.” The red leader said quietly.

His voice seemed to lure Wash out of his trance. He turned, but heard what it was before he saw it.

A screech echoed through the night, followed by yet another one.

All hope seemed to leave Wash all in once. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He readied his sword, and he heard the sound of Sarge’s sword leaving its sheath. In his peripheral, Grif readied his bow and looked around to find the monsters surely coming to end them all.

 _He was right. This sure is a shitty way to die_.

The adrenaline kicked in, and Wash almost felt himself grow hot with anger when another screech reached his ears.

_We were almost there. We almost made it. How dare you? How FUCKING dare you?!_

Suddenly, a blinding flashing light hit him, the night sky turning bright as day. The marshes were, for a second, turned into a white blur, and Wash screwed his eyes shut. He caught sight of a few monsters far away, but as the light hit them, they almost seemed to melt away. A dying screech reached his ears before they, and the light, were suddenly gone.

“What the hell?” Wash turned around, too taken with the anger to care about the swears. “What the hell was that?”

“What have we here?”

The Reds and Wash turned towards the new voice.

Doc stood there, panting and holding a torch. But in front of him stood a tall man in his late twenties, his complexion fair and covered in dirt and mud. A haphazard bandage covered his left eye and made a mess of his dark hair where he had wrapped the white cloth around his head several times. His one visible eye was sharp and bright, with a slight maniacal fever to them. A calm smile painted his lips.

“Visitors, in the dead of night?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how is everyone on their end of the world? We went paddling this week and my arms still hurt beacuse I am just the PINNACLE of physical prowess (ow!).   
> Stay safe!


	29. The Necromancer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings~  
> I was so wrapped up in preparing for night-shift that I completely forgot to post a chapter. Which means I haven't read it through yet, so it might undergo some -very mild- changes in the future.  
> Stay safe!

** Backwash swamps, Nochkit **

The door to the hut slammed open violently as the Guild passed through, the strange man in the lead.

The room was as messy and muddy as its owner, dirt and dust seemingly caking over every surface. Shattered glass glittered near the broken windows, some of them covered with cloth and some of them drew a cold breeze into the room. Books were thrown haphazardly on the floor; Wash was fairly certain he stepped on at least three of them. The only real sign of actual living was the fireplace, the crackling warmth thawing their chilled bones.

“Oh, master.” Doc sighed as he looked around. “I got you a bookcase, why don’t you use it?”

“Why would I store books I need every day, you fool?” His master replied easily, shuffling the books around to create a path towards another room, this one with large screens, almost like viewing windows to the main room. “Here, lead him in here to my lab.”

“Please tell me you at least cleaned the lab- _ah no, of course you didn't_.” Doc muttered as he opened the door to it. He turned around. “Alright, Caboose, bring him in. Simmons, you too, the rest of you; stay out!”

“What?!” Tucker screamed as he entered the house just before Caboose and the rabid mage. “Bullshit, you’re not keeping me out-“

“It’s nothing personal, Tucker. Mages only… and also Caboose.”

Tucker growled and kicked a collection of books as he crossed his arms, but stayed put. The rest of the Guild shuffled around to find a place to be less in the way as the mages ran around to find the tools necessary. Doc’s master barked orders from within the lab, and a bright light suddenly shone from the room, illuminating the large hulking shadow of Caboose still holding Church in a locked embrace, almost shaking.

Wash sighed, both out of exhaustion and relief. He sat down, a cloud of dust circling him, and leaned back against a stack of books. He caught sight of the Reds trying to find comfort near the fire, Sarge slowly removing his armor and wringing the mud and swampy water from his clothes. Grif just sat by the fire, staring blindly into it, almost nodding off. Tucker paced back and forth in front of the window panel to the lab, chewing on his bottom lip and staring into the room which they were prohibited to enter.

 _Poor thing_ , was the last coherent thought Wash managed to make before he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

He awoke sometime later as one of the books he had used as a pillow slid down from the pile and hit the floor violently. Wash woke with his heart beating rapidly and his eyes searching for enemies. Instead, he found the room bathing in the red light of dawn, and his comrades trying to find some sleep in the book-filled chaos. Grif laid across the floor with what looked like Sarge’s cloak thrown over him like a blanket, sleeping worriedly. Sarge was leaning on one of the walls, his head bowing forward and snoring quietly. Franklin had managed to find a sofa buried beneath all the paperwork, and there he was, curled up in a ball, occasionally jerking as if cold.

Wash sighed and unhooked the clasp of his heavy grey cloak. He approached the Seer and gently put the cloak around him. Franklin stirred, but stayed asleep, a gentle sigh of comfort slipping through his lips. Wash couldn’t help but smile at the tender, little man before he turned around to try to find Tucker.

The rogue had made what looked like a make-shift sofa out of four stacks of books huddled close near the viewing window, his head resting on the wall as he sat. Every now and then he would jerk himself awake and blink a couple of times, before falling asleep again.

Wash approached with a gentle tap on Tucker’s shoulder.

“Hey,” He whispered. “You should get some real rest.”

“No.” Tucker replied as he rubbed his eyes. “I’m fine. I can’t sleep anyway.”

“I see.” Wash sighed. “Mind if I sit?”

Tucker grunted and moved over, letting Wash sit down on his makeshift sofa. It wasn’t really big enough for both of them to sit comfortably, but as they shuffled around, they seemed to find a spot comfortable enough.

“Are you ok?” Wash said meekly, feeling terribly awkward at the silence.

Tucker just shook his head. “This… fuck, I don’t know, Wash. This was something else.”

“Yes, yes it was. I’ve never seen this before, it was terrifying.”

“Me neither.” Tucker groaned and rubbed his eyes once more. “Hell, those creepy eyes will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

Wash chuffed, a small laugh escaping his lips. “I second that. You did well, though. We would’ve all been killed if it hadn’t been for you throwing the bomb earlier.”

Tucker didn’t respond, but gently nudged Wash’s ribs with his elbow. Wash interpreted it as a silent ‘thank you’.

“I’m sorry.” Wash said, for what felt like the hundredth time that night. “If I hadn’t gotten hurt-“

“Trying to save Caboose, you mean?” Tucker interrupted him and looked up at him. Wash felt his response die in his throat as he stared almost unblinkingly into the rogue’s light grey eyes. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and Tucker chose that moment to look away and continue, “If you hadn’t hopped in, Caboose would have gotten seriously hurt. Church knew the risks, he healed you anyway.”

Wash sighed and tried to find some sign of living in the lab. He could decipher the impressive silhouette of Caboose, now leaning against the wall as if asleep. Three others, probably Doc, Simmons and Doc’s slightly unstable master, were leaning over a still shape lying on a table. Gentle rises of the chest ensured Wash that Church was still breathing, despite all of the horror he just went through.

“I hate waiting.” Wash found himself admit quietly.

“Mhm.” Tucker mumbled, yawning.

The rogue’s head fell gently on the wall, the steady quiet breaths filling the quiet room as Tucker slowly but surely fell asleep. Wash sighed and found himself somewhat opposed to leaving him there, his hand resting just next to Tucker’s leg. In the end, he opted for crossing his arms and leaning back, his leg brushing with Tucker’s. When he woke for the second time, it was due to the very loud and abrasive groan of the lab door opening.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes quickly and moved to wake Tucker, only to find his head resting on his own shoulder. He sputtered slightly, feeling his face going red but nudged at him regardless. The rogue stirred, his head slowly rising.

“What?” He whispered, but turned quiet and alert when he too caught sight of the door opening.

Simmons’s head popped up, scanning the room. His eyes fell on Wash and Tucker huddled together on the makeshift book-sofa and nodded towards the lab.

Wash stood quickly, and managed to entangle his arm with Tucker’s cloak, making the rogue choke and cough for a few seconds. Wash issued a quiet apology and hurried into the lab.

The lab walls were covered with drawings and notes, and the floor was littered with cracked essence crystals and vials. The only somewhat clean surface was the table in the middle, on which Church laid, quietly sleeping. Caboose had fallen asleep in a corner, curled up and trying to make himself as small as possible. Doc’s master sat in another corner, wiping his brow and releasing long, painful sighs. Doc walked around somewhat erratically, a notebook in his hand, seemingly taking stock of the remaining arcane tools.

And in the door stood Wash and Tucker, taking the view in and trying their best to decipher the setting and understand the scene.

“Is he ok?” Tucker asked, turning to everyone in the room.

“We believe so.” Simmons sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. “That was an all-nighter, I think we exhausted the entire stock of leukocytes. If he makes it through the next hour, he’ll most likely be fine.”

“We don’t know much of his neurological state though.” Doc replied as he stuck his head inside a cupboard to count vials. “We’re gonna do a full binaural cranial nerve exam once he feels up to it, but for now we’re just gonna let him be.”

Wash found himself in slight awe of the mages tossing out words that went completely over his head. “Certainly.”

“Considering the late stage he was in, he’ll most likely suffer some permanent damage. Pulling the malign energy from the brain can be… difficult.” Simmons muttered as he leaned against a wall, slowly descending down to the floor. “Also, I think we took every single NK cell and Eosinophil as well, sorry. I know those are hard to procure.”

Doc’s master groaned and rubbed his hands. “I had such a nice stock before you morons came through.”

“What do you mean by ‘permanent damage’-“ Tucker started with a worried look, but Wash let his hand grip the shorter man’s shoulder.

“We appreciate the help.” Wash said diplomatically towards Doc’s master. “And I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced-“

“O’Malley.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s what I go by, O’Malley.” Doc’s master stood up, dusting off his clothes. “Out of my way, I need to take stock.”

“But Master, I’m already-“ Doc started.

“You’re doing it wrong.” O’Malley responded and yanked the notebook from Doc’s fingers. Doc yelped and flinched as a small papercut appeared on his right thumb. “And don’t get blood all over my floor.”

“Y-yes, Master.” Doc said meekly and moved away.

Tucker stood for a while before he moved closer to Church, Wash found himself do the same thing on the other side of the table.

The mage looked much better, some of his olive tone returning to his previously ashen and sunken face. Every now and then his head would twitch slightly as if in a nightmare, but he seemed otherwise calm and normal. And very, very human. But the injuries had taken their toll on his body. His white undershirt had been cut from the collar in a straight line down and had been tucked away from his abdomen, and the sleeves had been rolled up, several semi-healed scars and sewn up incisions covering his forearms. His chest was still scarred and red after the hit he took on their way home from Ivory Tower, and now his lower abdomen had been covered in bandages once more, gentle red splotches covering them. The tops of his fingers were also covered in layers of bloodied gauze. Despite all of the injuries, as Wash heard the mage breathe steadily, he couldn’t help but release a gentle sigh of relief.

“Should we-“

“Let him sleep, yes.” Doc muttered and yawned. “Alright, next. How are your injuries, Caboose?”

“What injuries?” Caboose looked up. “I don’t have any injuries.”

“Oh, I wanna see this.” O’Malley popped up next to the giant marauder trying to make himself as small as possible. “Bleeding wounds in a fungi-heavy environment, inflicted by a _juuuuust_ about living dead; how intriguing.”

“I am not hurt, dirty man.”

Wash opened his mouth to, not perhaps _argue,_ as much as gently convince Caboose that the wounds inflicted on him by… Church, did need bandaging at the very least. But his arms looked remarkably healed, with only white crisscross marks to tell the story of injury in the first place.

 _Huh_ , Wash thought, taking great care to preserve that peculiarity in his memory banks.

“Don’t take it to heart, master.” Doc said quietly as O’Malley opened his mouth to issue a response. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“I think a blind moron could tell this guy is an utter imbecile.” O’Malley chortled. “Any other words of wisdoms from my useless pupil? No?”

Caboose lip quivered and he hid his face in his crossed arms, refusing to look up. Both Wash and Tucker turned to the necromancer, ready to argue. They all jumped back, almost in perfect synchronization, as the mage stirred on the table.

“Church?” Tucker whispered, leaning closer to his friend’s face.

Church’s eyes fluttered open with a deep intake of breath. Wash couldn’t help but lean over, his hand on his sword hilt. But the eyes that opened, albeit confused and tired, were light green and not the horrifying milky white they had previously been. After a few seconds of blinking and confusion, Church seemed to find his bearings and turned to the rogue.

“Tucker?”

Tucker’s face broke into a huge smile, a noticeable weight lifting from his shoulders.

“You sound like you at least. Feeling ok?”

“I _feel_ like fucking hell,” The mage blinked slowly. Wash found himself taking a relieved breath. He seemed back to himself, all angry and swearing. “Why is it always me who gets injured, huh? You guys need to start doing the heroic sacrifices here; I’m retiring.”

“Next time I tell you to _not_ go along on a very dangerous part of the quest; you might actually listen.” Simmons said with a roll of his eyes.

“And on that subject-” Tucker responded and grabbed the sides of Church’s collar, bringing the injured mage up to his face. Wash grabbed the back of the rogue’s cloak, ready to wring him back if the need should arise.

“What the fuck?” Church said, bewildered.

“If you hurt him-” O’Malley said sharply. “I’m not healing him again.”

“If you ever do that shit again, I will kill you, you hear me?” Tucker whispered furiously, so close to Church’s face the mage sported a few flecks of spit on his cheeks.

“You told me to do it, you idiot! I saved his damn life!” the mage responded. He twisted and gasped sharply. A hand fell on his abdomen, curses dripping out from his mouth in a steady stream. "Fuck, why is it always my _stomach?!"_

“Let him go, Tucker.” Wash said as he loosened his grip slightly, letting the rogue go. Tucker looked tempted to further his abuse, but a low rumble from Caboose stopped him in his tracks. Wash looked up in shock at the large man, who almost looked seven feet tall, his demeanor surprisingly threatening, like a predator locking eyes with its prey.

Tucker huffed, retracted his arm and looked away.

Church turned to Simmons, “So, how far from eternal damnation was I?”

“Fourth stage.”

Church grimaced. “Fuck, that close, huh?”

“You’re welcome.” O’Malley said, placing his elbows on the table, grinning down at the mage. Church tried his best to sink further into the table at the strange man’s sudden advancement.

“You look familiar.” O’Malley said then, clicking his tongue with a predatory grin covering his face.

“Shoo.” Said Caboose and poked O’Malley in the forehead, and the strange man bounced backwards, grinning and clapping his hands once more.

“Are you alright?” Wash asked.

“I’m fine.” Church muttered, blinking and trying to get his eyes adjust. He rose to his elbow, his chest heaving slightly. “I think so.”

“Church, this is my master; O’Malley.” Doc interrupted meekly. “He’s the one who saved you from getting possessed.”

“Ah.” Church at least had the grace to look somewhat ashamed. “I guess I owe you my life then.”

“You do indeed. What an interesting thing, I wonder how I shall reap that reward?” O’Malley said, more to himself than anyone else. He began to count different scenarios on his fingers as he walked around the table, “Money is a secondary issue, and you lot don’t look particularly wealthy. I’d demand essences for my stock which you have depleted, but you don’t seem to be carrying enough.”

“We’ll find something, we’ll make sure of it.” Wash said, stopping O’Malley dead in his tracks. “I give you my word.”

“What good is a word of piss-poor adventurer like yourself, pray tell?” O’Malley grinning face spoke of no malice, but his tone carried so much venom it could almost be seen with the naked eye, dripping from every word.

“My name is David Washington, of House Washington of Whitemount.” Wash said and he felt himself stand taller and prouder as he said the words. “I am of noble blood, and I intend to keep my word.”

“Washington?” O’Malley whistled and looked him over. “A Freelancer, I take it then? Charged with protecting this ragtag group? You got a royal in your midst, or someone else important that slipped under my notice?”

“Do we look like royalty to you, madman?” Church scoffed, winced and coughed once.

“Does a Seer count?” Said a voice from the door.

They all turned to see Franklin leaning against the doorframe, Wash’s cloak around his arms like a shawl. His blonde locks were a slight mess and although his eyes spoke of little sleep, they were alert and sharp.

“What a pretty little thing you are.” O’Malley rested his head on his hand, leaning forward. “Do you have an owner, pet?”

Caboose turned to the necromancer; his nostrils flared. Church’s hand flew up to grab his forearm, and Franklin gently put his hand on his back.

“It’s alright, Caboose.”

“It is not, he shouldn’t speak to you like that, strawberry tarte.” he responded, his words clipped.

“I’ve had worse.” Franklin smiled towards O’Malley. “We’re quite skilled with visions, you know. Perhaps you wish to see someone you care about, a lover, a relative?”

O’Malley didn’t respond, only smiled and stalked closer.

“A Seer, in my lab? Never thought I’d see the day. Screw the royal family, this is a rarity if I’ve ever seen one.” He laughed and looked around, as if expecting applauds for his observation. He sighed, disappointingly, then he grabbed Franklin’s face suddenly, looking at him closely.

Immediately, Wash pulled his sword from his sheath. Tucker grabbed at a dagger and leaned back, as if preparing to throw one of his knives. Church sat up as straight as he could muster, and with a flick of his wrist a sharp icicle appeared out of nowhere, floating above his palm. Simmons snapped his fingers, and a flame began to dance around his hand.

And from the other side of the door, Wash heard a bowstring becoming taut and a sound of a sword being unsheathed.

“Give me a reason, dickhead.” Said Grif from the other room, with Sarge throwing savage looks at O’Malley from over his shoulder. “I’m really fucking cranky when I wake up.”

“No need to show your teeth, Islander.” O’Malley replied sharply, still looking into Franklin’s eyes. The Seer stood quiet and patient, calmly letting the stranger hold his face between his hands. “I’m just a tad bit fascinated. Of all magic in this world, only the Seer’s magic seems an impossible world to explore. Care to share some secrets with me, pet?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know how my magic works, sir.” Franklin replied calmly. “It just works.”

“Ah, what a dull answer. Perhaps I can ask a different favor from you then.” O’Malley’s eyes travelled lower. “You _do_ seem so happy to see me.”

“That would be my dagger against your femoral artery, sir.” Franklin replied sweetly.

Wash couldn’t see if the Seer spoke true, but the small sheath where Franklin’s ceremonial dagger usually rested was empty. He couldn’t help but huff in amazement.

 _The Reds and Blues continues to surprise me_.

O’Malley looked at Franklin, then at the armed Guild to both his left and right, and then sighed and let his hands fall to his side. He turned to Doc and pointed at Franklin.

“He’s a lot more fun than you ever were.”

Doc just looked down and sighed.

“Oh, do put down your weapons and magic, you’re not impressing anyone.” O’Malley yawned. “I do believe you’ve overstayed your welcome here.”

“Wait.” Wash and Church cried at the same time. They looked at each other for a second, then Wash continued, “We need to ask you something. A-about a woman who passed through here.”

“My, my, what a demanding group I’ve picked up. First, you demand that I save one of you, then you refuse when I call in my favor and now you ask for another?”

“I can grant you a vision, as I’ve said.” Franklin said. “Isn’t that enough?”

“And will you be able to see this as well?”

“Sorry?”

O’Malley grinned. “Perhaps I wish to see someone, but it is not for your eyes either, pet. Will you be able to see as well?”

“I can look away.” Franklin said immediately. “It’s difficult to explain, but you’re not the first to ask a Seer that. I can make sure that the vision is for your eyes and your eyes only. I am merely the anchor to the vision.”

The necromancer pondered this for a moment, chewing on his thumb. “What the hell, I will probably never have the opportunity again. What is it that you wish to know?”

“Grif, the journal.” Church said immediately, hopping down from the table. He stumbled back and almost walked into Wash, who shot out an arm to stabilize him.

“Get it yourself, Blue.” Grif protested.

“I just woke up from near death, dickhead. And you’re in the way, just get the goddamn journal!” Church gestured to himself, leaning against Wash for support.

“It’s in my backpack-“ Simmons started.

“You’re awake for _five_ minutes and you’re already barking orders.” Grif muttered, turning around and stomping away. “Should I bring a nicely cooked veil-heart for you as well, your highness? Maybe a velvet pillow to rest your royal pain in the ass?”

“The journal will do.” Church responded, a hint of a menacing grin on his lips.

Grif returned seconds later, tossing the journal to Church, who clumsily caught in with both hands, which led to him almost falling down once more. Church glared, and Grif grinned before settling in next to Simmons.

The healer didn’t have much time with the journal though, as soon as he opened it, Wash took it from his hands and stalked off towards O’Malley.

“Hey-“ Church called out, but Wash ignored him.

“We have notes here, from a friend of ours who came by you to ask for your help on a certain subject. We wish to know what she asked you, and where she went.”

“Getting bored here, Freelancer.” O’Malley yawned. “Hurry it up, ask away.”

“She was asking about…” Wash consulted his notes for a second. “A _Perfect Rising_ I believe. Short, stocky woman, short brownish hair?”

“And a mousy face, I remember.” O’Malley said, scratching his neck as he pondered, unperturbed by Wash’s glare. “ _Perfect Rising_ is the ultimate necromantic summoning. You bring someone back, permanently, without the person being tied to the necromancer as its thrall. A resurrection, if you will.”

“Can you do it?”

“Can _I?_ ” O’Malley cackled. “Why would I want to do that? The very joy of necromancy is getting a thrall to do your bidding. No, I believe such would be only in the realm of the Gods. Doesn’t stop a heap from mentally unstable people from trying to bring back their loved ones though.”

“You’d know all about mentally unstable people.” Tucker muttered, earning a small scoff from Church. Wash turned to them to issue a glare. Insulting the only lead they had on Connie wouldn’t help them at all.

“What else did she ask?”

O’Malley shrugged his shoulders. “How one would supposedly try to do it, the amount of energy it would take etc etc. Honestly, it became a dull conversation quite fast.”

“May I ask-“

“Ugh.” O’Malley rolled his eyes and leaned back against the doorframe. Wash could see Church frown and look the master up and down, and quickly did the same.

“It’s never been done, and that’s the first issue. Energy-wise we’re probably talking enough to drain a hemisphere completely; second issue. Or maybe the entirety of Scania, since that fucking place is filled to the brim with magic. Honestly, I just told her to turn to the Sorcerer Command and leave me be after a while.”

“The UNSC?” Wash said, jotting down notes in the journal. He turned to Simmons. “They do not operate here, do they?”

“Eh. They’re all over the place, really. I think they’re mostly up in the Hellasian Isles. But the King has summoned them down before. We can’t really go and ask the, however. There’s no way in hell we’d get an audience with them; top secret and really fucking powerful. Our own arcane groups don’t hold a candle to them. So… y’know, hopefully, she didn’t go up there next.”

“Oh, no, no.” O’Malley waved the argument away. “She didn’t go up there. She was heading northwest to investigate the trigger. And judging from the giant arcane explosion that broke half my fucking windows; I dare say she broke the first one.”


	30. WHO IS RUNNING THIS GUILD??!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, my computer is sick :( I just sent the motherboard and cpu back to the company, so hopefully they'll fix it. So, right now I'm at my roomie's computer with my SSD plugged in it. I think it'll work out, but if the schedule is a bit off for a few weeks, you know why!  
> Stay safe!

** North of Backwash, Nochkit **

** O’Malley’s hut **

“She did what?” Wash said, blinking.

O’Malley grinned maniacally as the Guild stared at him with varying degrees of amazement and surprise.

“Oh, the arcane explosion?” Simmons said as he started to pace around the room. Sadly, with everyone crammed in the already small lab, he could only walk in a small circle and desisted the notion quite quickly. Wash could see the gears turn in his head. “That must’ve been it, right? Is every trigger going to do that? Oh, wait- maybe we can even figure out if one’s already broken?! There’s not that many arcane explosion -save for that huge one in Kingslight, oh wait; was that a trigger breaking?!- No wait, that was probably just the curse starting. Still-“ He turned to Church. “Dude! Help me out, I need another mage here.”

Doc pointed at himself with an offended expression, but Church seemed only to stare at a fixed spot on the ground.

“Are you alright?” Wash said. “Is something amiss?”

“No!” Church said quickly, before he cleared his throat. He busied himself with the bandages still covering his left hand. He bit his cheek with a smile before he rubbed his face with his hand and cleared his throat again, somewhat red in the face. “No, I’m fine. I’m fine. It’s just… Fuck, did she find the…first one? Are we sure?”

“Oh, absolutely not.” O’Malley said with a shrug. “But it seems like cursework.”

“Did she tell you-“

“Gods, I’ve half a mind to toss you out just to get some peace and quiet.” O’Malley rolled his eyes. “To the northwest, the most northwestern point of the island. Do I have to do everything for you here? Figure something out yourselves!”

“We will be out of your hair, soon. I give you my word.” Wash said, distracted, writing down more notes. “Simmons, we need to plan for the journey northwest, then. Come with me, let us not disturb him anymore.”

“Right.” Simmons nodded, and eventually they all streamed out of the room.

Caboose emerged last, hovering over Church and casting nervous glances back to the lab.

“I’ll be fine, big guy.” Franklin said sweetly. “Now, Mr. O’Malley; about that vision-“

The door closed on them, and they were left with awkward silence for a few seconds. Simmons stood with the map and trying to find an empty space to put them before Grif groaned and shoved some books away from the floor not-too-gently. Sarge shoved some of them away with the tip of his sheathe as well, before he sat down on the floor a bit further away.

“Right,” Simmons said as Wash came down to join him by the map. “The most northwestern point of the island is The Skull; home of the Dragon Marshal Order. Or… if there’s any left of it.”

“What now?” Church said from his position on the sofa.

Simmons sighed and angled the map towards him. “Ever noticed how the island looks a little bit like a dragon skeleton? Back when we were independent, most people believed that it _was_ a skeleton, and mother of all dragons that came after. So, we named this part of the island… The Skull. Because it… kinda looks like a skull.”

“Dude, your home is like _weirdly_ macabre and obsessed with dead shit.” Tucker pointed out.

“Shut up. Yours isn’t any better. It’s all-“ He stopped suddenly, glancing at Wash.

Tucker waved it away. “Nah, it’s fine. I told him.”

“You _what_?” Church said.

“Dude, it took you _years_ to tell me.” Grif said, somewhat hurt. “And you tell this fucker after… what is it now, like a month? Two months? What the hell? You wanna get in his pants _that bad_?”

“Pardon-?” Wash started.

“It’s not like that, dumbass.” Tucker just rolled his eyes. “He just… figured me out. Dude, Wash, help me here.”

Wash blinked at Tucker, and then Grif, and then back again. He himself had certainly not made any advances towards Tucker; at least he certainly hoped it had not been perceived as such. For a split second, he tried to recall if he had ever said anything that could have been misinterpreted. He shuffled awkwardly, and made a mental note to talk to Tucker about it later. He hoped he had not made the other man feel uncomfortable or under any unsolicited advances.

“Aaaand we lost him.” Church said, whistling to him. “Daaaavie? Nope, gone. Well done, guys.”

“No, no.” Was said, clearing his throat. “Tucker is quite right… i-in that I put it together eventually. About his… Crowclimber status. I recognized the markings underneath his eyes.”

“Uh-huh.” Grif said. “And just _how_ close did you have to stand to notice that?”

“Mother of the _fucking_ Sky; you guys are worse than Donut.” Tucker said as he lobbed a book at Grif.

“Did I, perhaps, _miss_ something?” Wash looked around.

“No! It’s just these guys. Seriously, the guy’s from Whitemount; of course, he’s gonna notice the fucking stone kisses.”

“The-?“ Wash asked with a small sigh. He felt more lost by the minute.

“These things. The marks. Don’t worry about it, it’s just a Crowclimber thing.” Tucker waved it away and leaned closer to the map. “So, where the fuck are we going?”

The Guild was, eventually, persuaded into productivity. The easiest way, according to Simmons, would be to go back to Backwash, take the animals and then take ship, a trip that would last about a week. Apparently, some of the Nochkitian people held on to the old faiths and visited the order on occasion, so finding a ship would not be too difficult. Simmons grimaced at the cost, however and added that they really couldn’t afford the luxury of a good vessel. Whatever _crappy fishing boat_ they could find, they had to take it.

Going back through the marshes was a no-go for everyone involved, and so they would be forced to go north for a few kilometers before circling it. O’Malley’s hut had been somewhat north of the marshes, and they would without a doubt be out of it before the sun set. It didn’t stop the nervous glances to Church however, who just crossed his arms and tried his best to seem unperturbed.

Wash privately thanked whatever god that could be listening for the fact that Nochkit was a fairly small island, and that it would not be as difficult to traverse as Potentia would be. But at the thought that Connie was, perhaps, chasing the entire Commonwealth for the triggers of the curse, he grimaced once more.

It was midday by the time O’Malley and Franklin emerged from the lab. Franklin looked somewhat green in the face, but just shook his head to Wash’s inquisitive look. O’Malley on the other hand seemed somewhat ecstatic, mumbling things as he went through piles of books in search of something. Eventually he stumbled upon a journal, skimmed through it and went back to the lab as he scribbled notes into it.

“Are you ok, Muffin man?” Caboose asked immediately after O’Malley had closed the door. He opened his arms and closed them around the smaller man as Franklin climbed into his lap.

“Just tired… and a little sick.” He shuddered and threw a somewhat worried look into the lab. “I didn’t look, I promise. Not for long, anyway, but the _sounds_ … I just, ugh, no, I don’t wanna know why he went back to _that_.”

“Back up a little, son.” Sarge said with a furrowed brow. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t _mean to look_ -“ Franklin stopped and looped his arm around Caboose’s. “Sorry, it’s a bit too much. He said he wanted to go back to an operation he did that he ‘ _screwed up’_. He was going on and on about how he _fixed you up so nicely_ -“ He turned to Church, who grimaced slightly. “-and so he wondered what he did wrong the first time.”

“He did say that he had done this kind of thing before.” Doc mumbled. “Bringing someone back from stage 4, that is. Maybe that’s where he went to look?”

“I guess so.” Donut said. “But… yikes, no, I’m kinda glad I wasn’t in the lab with you, then. The person… patient, I guess, just screamed and screamed and it was just _so_ terrible, and _so_ heartbreaking. I don’t think he was much older than a kid, honestly.”

“That’s fucked up.” Grif muttered.

Wash fought a shudder that went along his spine. He couldn’t help, at first, to be somewhat curious on what Franklin had seen as he turned to look, but he didn’t want to pry the young man further. He seemed somewhat traumatized.

“So, I guess the debt is paid, at least?” Tucker said. “So that we can kinda leave and _neeever_ come back here again? I don’t want to be indebted to a guy that does necromancy or whatever for a living.”

“Second that.” Church added from the sofa.

“Are you fit for travel?” Wash said. “Honestly, now. I understand that we all wish to leave, but we need to ascertain your health before we leave.”

“I’m fine…ish.” Church said. “Fine enough to leave, but I’m not up for going trekking to The Skull. Simmons, _can_ we even leave today? Or have we lost too much daytime?”

“We’re good. It takes two hours to get out of the marshes if we go north, and that’s if we move slowly. So, if we wanna pack up and leave now, we can.”

“You can’t.” O’Malley said as he opened the lab door. He looked down at the journal in his hand. “The patient _seems_ to be coherent and cognitive enough, I suppose, but it would be cruel to run off before I had time to do a full exam. If the _tapetum lucidum_ was left intact, there’s bound to be some changes to the eyesight… maybe some sensitivity to light-“ He looked up suddenly, turned to Church and tapped his knee. –“Get a move on. I saved your life, the least you can do is let me experiment on you for a few minutes.”

“Excuse me?” Church said, his face a little green and his eyes casting glances at Doc.

“I’ll come along.”

“Ugh, I suppose you must.” O’Malley said and turned back to the lab, muttering “You can hold my journal or something else less important.”

Doc nodded to Church. “Let’s go.”

“Uh, no, wait, hang on.” Church raised one hand. “Your master seems _pretty freaking insane_ , I’d rather not.”

“It’s just an exam. He’s just being his… extra scary self about it. I’ll be there, I promise. And the rest of the Guild’s outside.”

“Say the word and we’ll come in.” Wash added.

“Did you know that my first patient kept the supreme vision the dead have?” O’Malley said as he popped through the door again, tossing the journal to Doc. “He had this weird green… thing over his eyes, though. Never really knew why. Cheers for that, little thing, I believe I found what I did wrong the first time.”

Franklin blinked and looked around, but everyone seemed equally confused. “You’re… welcome?”

It was quiet for a few seconds before O’Malley turned back to the lab. With a sigh, Church stood up and walked in, followed by Doc.

 _He had this weird green…thing over his eyes_ … Wash blinked as O’Malley’s odd remark kept repeating itself over and over in his head. Thoughts came out incomplete and odd. _Could that-_ no, of course not. _But it could potentially-_ no, that’s absurd.

“Franklin.” Wash heard himself say. “You said that you _did_ look at the patient in the vision, yes?”

Franklin’s brow furrowed, seemingly surprised at Wash’s very monotone and serious voice. “…Yes?”

“A child, yes? Was he blonde? Could you see that?”

“…He was, yes. Why?”

 _Oh gods_.

Wash ransacked his brain, trying to remember certain portraits of the royal family. Far-fetched was too mild a word, _inconceivable_ seemed more appropriate. He turned back to Franklin, furrowed his brow slightly as he had apparently walked a full circle while pondering without realizing it, opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Wash?” Tucker said, “What’s going on?”

Wash wanted to say that it was nothing, that he was merely paranoid and imagining things, but the words didn’t leave his mouth.

“Franklin,” He said instead. “How long have you been at the palace?”

“Me?” He said, looking around. Everyone regarded Wash with a somewhat confused look. “Uh… a couple of years, I suppose?”

“How many royal family members did you run into? How many of them have you seen?”

“Uh, The Iota and The Eta, mainly. And the Delta, of course… The Gamma on occasion, and I think I’ve seen like a few glimpses of The Epsilon maybe.”

“No one else? Even in portraits?”

“…No? I mean, I _kinda_ know that The Omega had red hair and was like… really tall, Dee mentioned it like once, maybe.” Franklin bit the inside of his cheek. “Not sure about Sigma, honestly. Why? Why do you want to know-?“

“Quickly, now.” Wash said, with a cautious eye towards the lab. “The Omega; he was the one who supposedly got The Delta possessed so he could experiment on him, correct?”

“Ugh, do we have to talk about that?” Franklin shuddered.

“I’m sorry, _who_ did _what_?” Grif said, looking between them. “Aren’t the people with all the ‘ _The …_ ’-whatever-names the royal family? So, The Omega-guy is a prince?”

“Was. He was exiled for his crimes. He was… strange. And like really obsessed with necromancy and _oooooooooh no_.” Franklin said, smacked Caboose’s arm several times and then climbed out of his lap. He turned to Wash with a stern finger. “No, no. no. You’re not serious, Wash? You th- No! No, no, no, no, no. _That’s_ not-“ He pointed at the lab. “Oh gods, no.”

“I am only thinking out loud, Franklin.”

“Not loud enough, clearly.” Tucker said. “Can someone _fucking_ explain because it’s getting really frustrated to be talked over like this?!”

“Uh, guys?” Doc said, popping out from behind the lab door that swung open loudly. “Can you keep it down out there? My Master… He says he can’t concentrate when you keep muttering like that.”

“Could you hear our conversation, Doc?” Wash said sternly, not bothering to apologize.

“No?”

“Good.” He walked up towards the door and saw O’Malley scribble something in his journal while he walked around the operation table centered in the middle of the room. Church, who stood near pressed to a wall near the door, turned to Wash and rolled his eyes; gesturing at O’Malley’s antics.

Upon closer inspection, O’Malley was quite a tall man. Both Church and Wash were taller than the average height of the Guild, but he stood a few inches taller than both of them. For a man with Franklin’s and The Delta’s height; O’Malley would certainly be described as very tall. His hair was dirty and caked with mud, sticking out in every direction as if he had been pulling at it in frustration. It was difficult to discern his hair color from that, but a few semi-clean strands seemed to have a reddish quality to them.

Wash caught Church’s eyes, and the mage watched him with a curious look and a raised eyebrow. Wash cocked his head a bit, indicating for Church to move. Surprisingly, he did so without complaint, and moved to stand right next to him, blocking the only way out.

“O’Malley, if I may.” Wash said.

“Oh?” O’Malley looked up. “I see you’ve decided to stand in the way of the door. Is this your way of saying you don’t appreciate my help? Am I supposed to feel threatened?”

“Not at all, sir.” Wash said. “We very much appreciate your help. Our healer would not be alive were it not for you. And we do not intent to threaten you. Only to ask you a question.”

Both O’Malley and Church cocked an eyebrow and looked at him then.

“Your first patient.” Wash said. “You said he had this green hue over his eyes after the operation. Who was he?”

O’Malley just stared for a moment before he slapped his knee and started laughing. “Oh, _oh_ , I believe I made a mistake. Serves me right, I forgot you were a Freelancer.” He didn’t seem the least troubled. “I think you know very well who he was. Tell me, how does my dear old brother sleep at night? Still afraid of going outside of the library? Afraid I’m going to pop up around a corner at any time? Bet York has his work cut out for him, eh?”

“Oh, fuck.” Church said as he looked O’Malley up and down. “No _fucking_ way.”

“I believe you misunderstood the word _exile_.” Wash said coldly. “You were required to leave the Potentian Commonwealth, not just the mainland.”

“What is going on?” Doc said, looking back and forth between Wash and O’Malley with alarming speed. “Who’s exiled? Master, did you get _exiled_? What did you do?”

“Frank, get over here, please.” Franklin said quietly from behind the door, and Wash moved slightly so that Franklin could gently grab Doc and get him out of the room. 

“Out of all the _fucking_ places.” Church huffed. “I’m starting to think our gods didn’t leave us and are just having the time of their freaking lives right now. What part of _leave the Commonwealth_ did you not get? Or were you too busy laughing maniacally to notice you were in fact _exiled_?”

“Hearing issues aside,” Wash said sharply. “You are a long way from home, Omega. But not far enough.”

O’Malley rolled his eyes as the rest of the Guild looked in confusion.

“Wait.” Doc piped up from behind Simmons. “Master, he’s not serious? There is no way…I-I mean I don’t want to be rude, but I can personally not believe that you’re… ?”

“Prince Orion, if you wish to be specific.” O’Malley said with a small shrug and a huge grin as the frantic whispers of ‘oh gods’ were heard in the back from Doc.

“ _Former_ prince Orion.” Wash corrected. “You’ve chosen quite a remote spot, but I’m afraid you’re still breaking the law.”

“Are you here to enforce it, Washington?” O’Malley cackled. “I’m afraid I won’t go willingly, and you don’t seem to be surrounded by other Freelancers to help you.”

“The Guild will do what is right.” Wash said, hoping that he would sound more certain of it than what he actually was. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “And we will not hesitate to use force if we have to.”

“We are _not_ attacking him.” Church said, suddenly, with such vehemence Wash couldn’t help but turn to look at him with a protest ready. Church thoroughly ignored him and nodded towards O’Malley. “We’re leaving.”

O’Malley looked between Wash and Church and clapped his hands. “Oooh, can’t decide who’s the boss, can you? I’m quite touched by the loyalty, little healer, but I’m afraid it doesn’t mean that I’ll be coming to save you from spirits again-“

“Cut the shit, Orion.” Church cut him off. “This isn’t about you. Guys, pack up, we’re going. _Now_!”

Wash turned to look back at the rest of them, and caught Tucker’s eyes as he looked between the two of them. They stood still for a second, looking terribly lost, before Tucker sighed and turned around.

“Move it, big guy.” He said to Caboose. “We’re leaving.”

With that, they moved out, leaving Church and Wash with O’Malley.

“Aaaaw, sorry, Washington.” O’Malley laughed. “But I believe you were just kicked from the position. Congratulations, little healer, for some reason people actually listen to you.”

Church only glared at him before he turned his heel. He snapped his fingers, and Wash grit his teeth at the nonverbal command.

 _You are not my commander,_ Wash thought. _I will go against you if I have to._

Wash moved to block the door, staring at O’Malley with unblinking attention, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword. Whatever somewhat threatening presence he had hoped to conjure, however, was seemingly gone and O’Malley only cackled at him.

“Run along, little Freelancer.” He giggled and clasped his hands behind his back, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Your master has issued a command.”


	31. There is something SERIOUSLY wrong with your dog!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the (stll) wierd format. My PC is still not working and my work-laptop has some... INTERESTING ideas on what is and what isn't proper format. I made it a little bit better than the previos read, but it's not perfect. I'll keep working on it.  
> Stay safe!

**North of Backwash, Nochkit**   
**Outside of O’Malley’s hut**

“I’m assuming you have a good reason for us leaving him be, Church.” Wash said as he fastened his cloak, trying to put the bubbling anger into the clasp. “This is beyond infuriating.”

  
The swamps didn’t look much better with the sun lighting it through the heavy, grey clouds. The stench still hung in the air, but the acidic feel that usually stung in his eyes and nose had lessened. Perhaps he had gotten eerily used to it by now. Doc and Simmons had just started to walk, and they followed their guides with slow, unenthusiastic steps.  
At the sound of Wash’s voice, or, he suspected, his tone; Tucker groaned and moved further up to avoid them.

  
Church, naturally, didn’t hesitate to roll his eyes at him. “What, exactly, did you want us to do? Bring him on the quest with us? In chains? If you want to start a fight with him, you’re welcome to run back and do it. But leave us out of it, this is not our job!”

  
“It goes beyond our duty! We could have turned him to the authorities, we are a day’s marsh away from Backwash, and even less if we manage to catch a ride. Why did you insist-” 

  
“He’s necromancer, surrounded by a whole swamp filled to the brim with spirits!” Church argued, the sound echoing across the empty field around them. “Think about it for a second, Wash! Had we laid a single hand on that guy, he might've snapped his finger and summoned a dead dragon, or whatever bullshit he can do now! We’d be dead within a minute! And don’t tell me the other option was to kill him immediately; that is way beyond the usual cold-soldier-bullshit you usually pull! We are not killing my- we are not killing a fucking Potentian prince, exiled or not! I got more experience than you with mages, so maybe you should listen to me when I tell you that we should leave!”

  
Wash froze in his steps for a few seconds. Infuriatingly enough, it was quite a good point. Magic was miles away from Wash’s expertise, and so he had to admit that it was perhaps a calculated decision. But he couldn’t help but be childishly bitter about it. Following Church’s orders simply because he issued them was going to be a problem, should the mage try again. The Guild seemed eager to follow and trust, but it didn’t come instinctually to Wash at all. As a matter of fact, he’s never in his life felt more the need to contradict someone’s orders the second they were issued, but here they were.

  
He settled for a stern nod and looked ahead. Church grit his teeth and groaned in annoyance and stomped on ahead, leaving him in the rear of the party.   
He managed to catch up to Doc eventually, more because the other man was slowing down more and more; seemingly lost in his thoughts. So much so that, when Wash tried to respectfully pass him, he yelped and jumped away from him, his foot getting stuck in the mud.

  
“My apologies!” Wash said as he grabbed his arm to try and steady him. “I did not mean to alarm you. I’m certain you have quite a lot of things to… review.”

  
“A prince.” Doc muttered and shook his head. They got him free eventually, but Doc barely noticed it and only stared at a point in front of him. Wash managed to prod him into walking, but he kept Doc somewhat close in case he would blindly walk into something.

  
“Are you sure?” Doc said after a while. His eyes were wide and terribly confused, and they darted back and forth. “I don’t… I mean how? And just… why? Why here? How did you even figure it out?”

  
“I don’t suppose you remember The Delta, Doc?” Wash said calmly. “I know I spent more time in the Keep than most people here, but there is perhaps a certain feature of his that you can recall-?”

  
“Oh, he has the weird eyes, right?” Doc said, and then immediately grimaced. “Sorry, I know I shouldn’t say that… He seems nice… But his eyes are really creepy, all green and practically shining and all that. After coming across the dead here in the marshes, I just have this weird fear. Eyes aren’t supposed to shine in the dark, y’know.”

  
Wash had to admit, privately, that he too thought the Delta had a creepy, almost ghostlike quality to him with his demeanor alone; his more haunting feature certainly didn’t help. But he felt protective of him regardless, knowing the story behind it. 

  
“It was the Omega’s doing.” He said, and let a sigh slip out. “When he was still a prince, The Omega was quite obsessed with necromancy, thralls and the like. I wasn’t at the palace when he did it, I was too young, but there are enough stories from the servants at the Keep to paint quite the picture. He, supposedly, pushed his wetnurse out the window and tried to resurrect her afterwards when he was quite young. And it only got worse from there. He wanted to try to control the dead, like a proper necromancer, and let a spirit try to possess the Delta before he removed the spirit entirely. That event was, apparently, the one that led to The Delta’s… feature as well as his, very understandable, reclusion. There were rumors of an execution-“

  
“Oh.” Doc said, ashen-faced and almost trembling.

  
Wash nodded his agreement. “Oh, indeed. The Omega had pushed the King’s hand, so it seems. But in the end, he merely got exiled. I can’t believe he was here on Potentian soil all this time, when he should’ve been sent as far away as possible. He didn’t deserve such mercy. I can’t believe Church-“ He stopped and rubbed a hand across his mouth, once more letting a deep sigh escape. “Forgive me, Doc. This is something between us two, not you. But, looking at the evidence, I am quite certain we were indeed with The Omega, not just any random… eccentric recluse.”

  
“Gods, so I’ve been the apprentice of a prince?” Doc stared at the ground, waving his arms around. “I don’t really know how to feel about that! Like… I don’t know, I had this… picture of royalty, y’know? All regal, dressed in fine clothes, proper language. Kinda like you, honestly!”

  
“I’m flattered.” Wash sputtered, and he felt himself redden slightly as he stood straighter with the praise. 

  
“Right, well. But then there’s… my master, who is precisely none of that. I don’t know, I guess I was just a bit naïve. But holy crap, a prince. An actual prince.”

  
“Is this your first-time meeting royalty?” Wash said.

  
“Kinda. I saw Gamma once, and I’ve seen Delta from afar. But I haven’t worked with one, extensively… for years! Actual years, I just- I- Gods, my brain has gone out the window.” Doc whined and stopped for a second. He took a deep breath and continued. “So, what did you want to do? Back then, I mean. Arrest him?”

  
Anger flared in Wash’s chest for a second, and he cast a look back. Somewhere there, amongst the marshes, was a former prince breaking the already too merciful punishment of exile. He knew damn well that The Omega would most likely leave now, seek refuge somewhere else before Wash had time to either alert the authorities or assemble a worthy crew to capture him and bring him to proper justice. He had slipped through his fingers, and it irked him to his core.

  
“I know we are on a mission, Doc.” Wash said slowly, trying his best to talk with a calm and collected tone. “But this… He should not have gotten away with it. He was exiled from the Potentian Commonwealth. He was to leave and never return. To think that he broke that trust, that he has been here all this time, in the comfort of familiarity and home. It’s far beyond what he deserves.”

  
“Yikes.” Doc said, grimacing. “I had no idea you hated him so much.”

  
“I have no personal history with him, Doc. But he was given a decree by the King, and he chose to disrespect it to that degree. It is inconceivable, and all honor has been lost to him.”

  
“You Freelancers are really loyal, huh.” Doc said, and brought his hands up in defense when Wash looked at him. “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing, I promise! I promise! I just didn’t realize that you liked the King that much.”

  
“It is-“ was, said a cruel voice inside his head. “-our duty, and one of pride. It was an honor to serve the royal family, as it should be.”

  
Doc looked around awkwardly, grimacing slightly. “Uh-huh.”

  
“Why?” Wash’s brow furrowed. “Has Church been telling you otherwise?”

  
“Nope. Nope. Nu-uh, nothing of the sort.” Doc said quickly, far too quickly. “He hasn’t, I promise. Don’t start fighting. I know that’s your thing, by now-“

  
“It is not a thing!” Wash protested. The very notion, like it was something to be taken as a joke, made Wash redden slightly. “I will speak out when I feel proper conduct is not being followed, as should every honorable person. I am not seeking conflict, I will merely object to dishonorable notions!”

  
“Uh-oh.” Doc sighed. “Ok, Wash. Sure.” 

  
Wash bit back a growl and they walked in silence for a while. He wrapped the cloak around himself whenever a cold wind struck, and he missed the mainland with every wet splash his boots made. He had expected Doc to avoid him, to make a sprint for it and head forward to talk to Donut or Caboose, but the mage stayed with him, brow furrowed.

  
“Was he supposed to be killed?” Doc said finally, with a quiet voice. “I have little love for him, but it… It’s a lot to learn. You said he was supposed to be executed?”

  
Wash opened his mouth, but it took him a few seconds to come up with something to say. He had been going at it with so much fervor that he hadn’t considered that Doc would, naturally, be quite disturbed by the notion that his master was supposed to be expecting a noose. “He was, at first. The execution of a prince is not something decided lightly, so they argued back and forth. It took the good of a month before the King officially ordered his exile, but it was apparently not his idea. Not all of it, at least.”

  
“Oh?”

  
Wash’s eye twitched as a sharp pain hit his skull. “It is only rumors, Doc, nothing more. But the King was so adamant about his execution that the sudden mercy seemed strange to many. Some argued that it was the chamberlain Price who pleaded for the prince’s life. But most believed it was Prince Leo.”

  
Doc blinked. “Prince Leo?”

  
Wash cleared his throat. “My apologies. Prince Leonard II is what I mean. Being the eldest brother, some assumed it was familial love that led to the mercy. But that-“

  
He stopped suddenly, staring unblinkingly into the vast nothingness of the marshes. The throbbing pain in his head became a secondary thought to the revelation. He didn’t know how he knew, but it had been the heir who argued for his younger brother’s mercy. When had he heard it? Had he been told so? Was he there when Prince Leo pleaded with his father?

  
He lost his footing as the pain hit him so sharply, he thought he had been struck at first. He fell to his knees, scrambling to find something to grab onto as white spots appeared in his vision.  
“Church!” Doc cried. “Church, come here! He needs help!” 

  
Hands grabbed at his elbows and steadied him, and in the midst of the pain he looked up to find the familiar light-grey eyes peering down at him.

  
“I’m alright.” He told Tucker. It came out ragged and he was somewhat shocked at how quickly it drained him to speak. He fumbled to speak once more, but Tucker pressed his hand to his mouth.  
“What is it with you and talking when you need to rest, mother of the fucking sky! Just relax, Wash!”

  
“What happened?” Church said as he came to them, kneeling down in front of him. An absurd snort of laughter escaped from Wash’s mouth; the healer sounded so oddly different when he was healing and treating his patients. Oddly professional and authoritative. It sounded vaguely familiar.

  
“Wash!” Tucker said as he collapsed into the mud, his world turning dark.

  
He awoke on the back of a wagon, the soothing sound of the creaking wheels bringing him back to consciousness. He blinked and looked around, only for his stomach to lurch and he curled inwards slightly, gasping.

  
“Wash!” Again, it was Tucker who knelt next by him on the wagon. “Stay still, Wash. You’re fine, but we don’t have a lot of room on this thing.”

  
Wash opened his eyes slightly and tried to blink the white spots away. He had been gingerly laid out on the wagon floor, with a little bit of space for Tucker as well. The rest of the wagon was full, with some wares tossed upon another in order to give them enough room. His foot twitched and a stack of boxes moved precariously as Tucker cursed and went to hold them for a second.

  
“Stay still!” He repeated, then he whistled. “Church, he’s up!” 

  
“About time.” Church said as he appeared in front of Wash, almost jogging in order to keep up with the wagon. “Stay down and don’t move. You’re gonna be really nauseous, so try to keep your eyes closed.”

  
“What happened?” Wash tried with a weak voice. He tried to recall what had happened before he had passed out, but it felt oddly distant. He remembered speaking to Doc, but not exactly what. The pain had hit him suddenly, but he couldn’t recall what he had done to bring it forth.

  
“No, don’t do that.” Church called him back to reality with a sharp, authoritative tone. “I know that freaking look, don’t overthink it. Just stay down and let Tucker take care of you, alright? We’re almost at Backwash, and I’m not gonna stay back here and run all the way!”

  
“Lazy!” Tucker called out with a weak smile and an eyeroll.

  
“Shut up, Tucker!” Church called back with the hint of a smile as he ran past them to jump up to the front of the wagon.

  
Wash tried his best to focus on the wooden planks of the wagon, and as Tucker came to lay a hand on his forehead and wipe away the sweat, he managed to close his eyes and focus on the soothing warmth. 

  
The rolling eventually came to a stop, and Wash dared to blink and move his head a little bit. At the revelation that his head didn’t swim in pain and that his stomach wouldn’t try to upheave whatever contents it had, he dared to move to lean on his elbows to look around with a tired groan.

  
“Where did you find-? Is this-?” He tried to blink away his grogginess and gestured towards the wagon.

  
“Well, we found a road, eventually, and ran down a good Samaritan eager to help us for a fee.” Tucker shrugged. “Caboose had to carry you, and that guy can bring puppy eyes like you wouldn’t believe. Good luck saying no when he says ‘please’.”

  
“Oh.” Wash tried to make a mental note to himself to thank the wagon-driver profusely when he could walk properly.

  
“Feeling better, man?” Tucker said from his left, leaning against a barrel. He rolled his shoulders and stretched a bit. “You’ve been out for hours.”

  
“Are we there?” Wash said, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. “Backwash?”

  
“Just about.” Tucker replied, just as the wagon started slowing down. “This is our stop, though, the farmer’s not heading this way anymore.” 

  
He stood in a crouched position and practically vaulted over Wash with a practiced ease before he landed on the ground behind the wagon, stretching and yawning like it was nothing. Wash blinked.

  
“You are quite flexible.” He blurted out.

  
Tucker blinked at him for a second before he sputtered something and looked down, clearing his throat. He looked at everything besides Wash.

  
“Gee, thanks. That’s the weirdest compliment I’ve gotten yet.” He said with a pitched voice, coughing once more. “Just get out of there. If you can admire my acrobatics, you can probably walk.”

  
“I wasn’t…” Wash let it trail off as Tucker disappeared to the front of the wagon at an alarming speed.

  
He settled for a gentle sigh as he heaved himself up with careful movement before hopping down to the ground. Looking around, he recognized the rolling hills of the southernmost part of Nochkit, with the city of Backwash just within view behind a landscape filled with mountains, streams and heathers. He took a deep, clear breath and practically felt the acidic note of the marsh disappear. 

  
“Wash.” 

  
Wash opened his eyes with a small grimace. “Yes, Church?”

  
“How’s your head?”

  
Wash sighed and rubbed the side of his face. “Decent enough, for an episode that bad.”

  
“Right.” Church crossed his arms and stepped closer. Wash couldn’t help but lean backwards out of habit, a movement met with a roll of Church’s eyes and a groan. “I’m just going to check your pupils, for the love of the gods, just stand still. I’m not gonna hit you or anything.” 

  
Wash, somewhat reluctantly, let himself be quickly examined by the healer. Church grabbed his chin and tilted his head in various directions, looking at his pupils and listening to his heartrate. Wash let him do his work with quiet fascination.

  
“Nothing, really.” Church concluded. “How’s the abdomen?”

  
“Pardon?”

  
“Remember how I saved your ass from certain death?” Ah yes, there’s the snarky mage, Wash thought with grim humor. “It was a pretty fucking good heal, if I may say so myself, but don’t overwork it if it hurts. Got it?”

  
Wash blinked in surprise. “Got it.” He said at last. “How… how are you holding up after the…event?”

  
“Riiight.” Church turned to look to the wagon, where the farmer discussed something with Simmons. “Yeah, I’m doing good. Orion- ugh, The Omega is not a very good healer, but he was very thorough. It’s probably gonna leave another fucking scar, but at least I’m alive. I guess that’s better than most people who end up with that.”

  
“It was indeed quite haunting.” Wash said quietly, the memory of the black goo oozing out of the healer’s mouth suddenly vivid and fresh in his head.

  
Church scoffed, but not too cruelly. “You can stop looking disgusted, man. I’m not gonna spit tar at you.”

  
Wash hummed. “Uh-huh.”

  
Church blinked, and leaned back with a small sideway smile. “Was that sarcasm? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  
“No.” Wash said quickly. “I’m not being sarcastic, I’m being… cautious.”

  
Church rolled his eyes with a small laugh. “Right. Of course not, you’d never.” 

  
“Wash!” Doc cried as he drifted around the corner, holding a cheesecloth bag. “I’m so, so, sorry; are you alright?”

  
“What?” Wash and Church said at the same time. Wash continued, “Yes, I am quite alright. It’s been a while since I had an episode, I suppose it was only the stress. It’s not your fault, Doc!”

  
“Here!” Doc basically thrust the bag to his face. The smell of peppermint and other indistinguishably scents were quite nice, but somewhat sharp in such a close proximity. Wash took it from him with a gentle hand.

  
“I take it this helps?” He asked calmly.

  
“It does. I think. I’m just worried that I triggered it somehow.” Doc said, shifting nervously. “A bad memory or something? Do you remember what happened?”

  
“I-“ 

  
“Don’t pressure it.” Church said sharply. “It’s not worth another episode. Just leave it.”

  
Doc blinked and looked at Church, as if he just remembered that he was there as well. “I think it’s important to get to the root of the problem here. It might help in the future.”

  
“Not this problem.” Church said. “Trust me.”

  
“If the two doctors are quite done talking over their patient.” Wash said coldly, casting a stern eye at both of them. “Unfortunately, Doc, I don’t actually remember anything about our conversation. I don’t suppose you do?”

  
“No.” Doc shook his head with a sad sigh. “I don’t remember at all. About O’Malley maybe- I mean, The Omega. But after that it’s just a blur. I think the panic got to me, y’know, when you fell to the ground like that. But I can’t tell for certain…”

  
“Of course, you can’t.” Church sighed. He shook his head and rolled his shoulders. “Never mind, this won’t help at all. Don’t think about it. I don’t want it to trigger another episode. Make yourselves useful and grab some of our stuff, we’re going down to the city!” 

  
Backwash looked considerably cleaner and more proper, and Wash had to count in his head how many days they had been away; no longer trusting his own memory. The low thrumming chaos that hung over the city had been replaced with the usual fast pace disarray of a large metropolitan. The sick tents were gone, no shards of glass scattered across the large cobblestone roads, and Sirenpool stood as the centerpiece of a bustling market, smells of exotic spices fresh from the ships mingled with the glints of the fine jewelry displayed on stalls painted with Egeniellan symbols.

  
Wash blinked, and only realized he had turned to a halt when he was shoved to the side by an elderly lady quite brusquely with some angry words in a heavy accent.   
Simmons had thankfully realized that the Guild would perhaps become lost in the crowd and had grabbed onto the gargantuan frame of Caboose to act as a beacon as he made his way to the inn. The tall mage turned around right before the door to the inn, counting the Guild members before he went inside with a greeting.

  
And was promptly met with a cacophony of panicked and enraged voices. Simmons stopped dead in the hallway as he looked around in confusion. As Wash squeezed through to the front, a piercing shriek of a bird echoed in the hall as a red-faced woman ran to the front of the bar with Sheila, still in her cage with her hood on.  
The woman yelled something to the man, the grumpy innkeeper they had booked the rooms with, her voice high-piercing and shrill. She practically threw the cage on the bar, as if it was cursed, and then ran off as fast as she could.

  
“What the hell’s going on here?” Simmons said, gesturing at the cage. “What on earth are you doing? Stop pestering our animals, we paid you to take care of them!”

  
“You!” The innkeeper almost leaped over the bar to get to them. He had a finger pointed at them, his face red and beady eyes wild with rage. Drops of spit flew from his mouth as he screamed, “I’ll have no creatures of the dead taking refuge in my home! How dare you bring your filth to our doorstep?! This is a house of _Dana_ and we will have nothing of your rotborn devils! Out, out with all of you; before I’ll turn you in! You can perish with your evil summons out in the streets; I will not have you here!”

  
Wash could only stare, having little idea what had upset the man to such a degree, but Simmons only paled and backed away until he hit the door frame.

  
“You will explain yourself, sir!” Wash said coldly, springing into action as the innkeeper grabbed Sheila’s cage. He moved to stand in front of Simmons, hand at the hilt of his sword. “We know nothing of what you’re accusing us of; but you will cease to mistreat our animals!”

  
“Animals?!” The innkeeper’s mouth almost frothed at this point. He swung the cage and tossed it at them, to Wash’s horror. Grif caught it swiftly, having jumped to Simmons’s side immediately.

  
“Hey, asshole!” He yelled as he clutched the cage. “What kind of a dick does this to a fucking animal, what’s wrong with you?!”

  
“Those things are not animals! They are the summons of a necromancer, a being of _Donn_! Take those things back to _Tech Duinn_ where they belong, and leave us in peace, you are not welcome here!”

  
“Uh-oh.” Simmons muttered.

  
“What nonsense!” Wash argued. He turned to look at Sheila, who looked somewhat ruffled but otherwise unharmed. “We will not stand here and take this. Where is our hound? What have you done to him?”

  
“His head fell off!” The innkeeper screeched, before whispering something not unlike a prayer beneath his breath. He briefly touched a bejeweled brooch on his chest, as if for comfort, before continuing with the hint of terror in his voice, “The damn thing is spewing black smoke and gods-know-what! I don’t know what gods you worship, but you will not do so here!”

  
Wash blinked again. He opened his mouth as he tried to make sense of what the innkeeper had said. His mind tried to chalk it up to a heavy accent, a different worship or simple ramblings of a madman, but in the midst of his thoughts Sarge popped up behind him with a laugh;

  
“Oh, you mean Lopez? Lopez’s head fell off? Yeah, he does that sometimes, he’s just being grumpy. Don’t worry though, Simmons will fix him right up, won’t you, son?”

  
“Sarge!” Simmons practically screeched, turning to his superior officer with a panicked, pleading look. 

  
Wash blinked again. “Wait, what?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend re-reading ch 5 about Lopez's condition in case you're curious!


	32. 'Basically I'm a God'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness, night-shift stole my brain and I don't know when I'll get it back.   
> Stay safe!

** Capitol of Nochkit, Backwash **

** West harbor  **

“I am getting quite tired of being on the disadvantageous side of knowledge.” Wash gritted his teeth, his fingers drumming on the pommel of his sword rapidly. “Explain yourselves!”

“It’s a very, very,  _ very _ long story!” Simmons tried, grimacing and looking around to ensure that no one would stumble in on their little gathering. Hot breath wafted past Wash’s hand and he jumped, swiftly turning to face the wolfhound with a suspicious glare. Lopez snorted back, as if amused  by his antics. 

To say that they had been  _ escorted _ out would have been generous, as they were more or less verbally abused by the innkeeper until  they had stepped out of the house, their belongings thrown out the door like trash. The innkeeper had closed the door on them immediately, hatching it loudly. While Wash still tried to make sense of the event, Simmons and Grif had taken off immediately to an alley around the back of the house, where the innkeeper’s wife had supposedly thrown the remains of their hound. About two minutes later, while Wash was trying to get  _ some _ form of coherent information from Sarge, the two emerged with Lopez in tow; very much alive and very much grumpy.

“So, the guy’s a mad dick?” Church had said  with a fixed glare to the house.

Simmons had grimaced at that. “No… no, not quite. But not here, we should move someplace else. Let’s go!”

Which had led them to slowly make their way to the west harbor in complete silence, save for Caboose who had skipped all the way down, whistling something to Sheila and grinning at the cage when she had responded with a similar chirp.

Simmons had stopped in a long, narrow alley smelling quite foul of fish and offal, with broken nets and frayed ropes strewn haphazardly on the ground, before he finally turned around with a sheepish look and a deep sigh.

Wash crossed his arms. “I am quite eager to hear this, Simmons. It seems more like a tale fit for horror than anything else. What part of the innkeeper’s story was true?”

“Honestly… like,  _ all _ of it.” Simmons said quietly.

“You mean to tell us -“ Church popped in next to Wash, almost face-first into his shoulder has he stumbled into a net. “That Lopez’s  _ head fell off _ and it, and I fucking qu ote, ‘spewed black smoke’? What the hell is that, what do you mean  _ like all of it was true _ ?”

Wash was, honestly, quite glad that he was not the only one lost for once, as all the Blues seemed to be in various degree of shock and confusion as well. Both Doc and Franklin looked back and forth, and skittered away when Lopez came near. Or yawned, or chuffed, or did anything.

“I…uh…” Simmons looked around the remaining Reds for help, but Sarge only shrugged and Grif grimaced helplessly. “Ok, so I  mightHaveAccidentallyResurrectedHimOnceAWhileAgo .”

“I’m sorry, what?” Church leaned forward. “ _ Accidentally? _ How the fuck  do you  _ accidentally _ resurrect  someth \- you, know what, no; I’m done!” The mage abruptly turned wit h his hands raised in defeat. He started pacing, and only growled back a  _ “Piss off, demon dog!” _ when Lopez growled at him as he came close. 

“Necromancy is illegal!” Wash said. “ _ Illegal. _ The worst kind of magic! And you mean to tell us you have resurrected a dog to go with us on this quest? We are emissaries of the King, a Guild on a royally sanctioned quest and you besmirch it by  doing something so horrid?! ” 

His head almost swam with the onslaught of memories of Lopez the dog being distinctly  _ not dead _ and very distinctly  _ moving _ and  _ Mother of the Sky I have petted a dead dog _ . 

“Aren’t the summoned dead supposed to be all…” Tucker gestured wildly. “ Y’know, thrall-y? Slow, moaning and very, very clearly not alive and normal? Don’t get me wrong, the mutt is weird, but he’s also  breathing !”

“Simmons is a special kind of man!” Sarge said, as if talking about a son he was particularly proud of. He grasped Simmons’s shoulder with a smug smile towards Church. “Our man can resurrect  _ anything _ back from the dead. Take that, you dirty blue! Bet your magic can’t do that!”

“Sarge, that is so  _ incredibly _ not-the-fucking-point that I don’t even know where to start!” Church almost shrieked. He gestured at Lopez, who only calmly yawned and nosed around the ground for fish remains. “This is bullshit, there’s no way you can do this. It goes  _ way _ beyond any arcane field of  science ;  _ any! _ My brother resurrected a bird once and it tweeted  _ on _ _ e time _ before freaking collapsing again. He's probably better at it now but it's still just- There is no way that you can resurrect, and sustain, a thrall indefinitely! That’s not how necromancy works!”

“Your brother did what?” Wash  said, both astonished and horrified.

“ That I s N ot T he T hing T o F ocus O n N ow !” Church pointed to Lopez. “That’s what we should focus on!”

“I don’t know how it works!” Simmons confessed loudly. He stopped and looked around, but the bustle around the harbor was so loud it hadn’t caught the attention of any nearby people. He sighed and picked at his fingernails, staring at the ground. “I don’t know  _ how _ it  works; it just does. I’ve always been able to do it. It doesn’t make any sense, I know. And I didn’t do it on purpose . ”

“ You can’t -“ Church looked like he was about to pop a vessel. “You  _ can’t _ summon something accidentally! Necromancy is the most difficult school of magic, the amount of concentration it takes is just insane. You mean to tell me you freaking sneezed and this guy popped back to life?”

“When did he die?” Franklin said softly.

They all turned to him, including Lopez himself. Franklin sat perched on a barrel, his feet as far away from the dog as he could . His face reddened.

“I just… It’s terrible. And  _ really _ strange, but when did he-?”

“Lopez has been with me for a long time, son.” Sarge said. “Randall’s old hound,  ain’t ya , boy?”

Franklin turned to Grif with a raised eyebrow, mouthing  _ ‘who’s Randall?’ _ as Sarge petted the dog once. Lopez let him do it with a small, displeased grunt. Grif shook his head vehemently as Simmons grimaced, very clearly indicating that no one should ask.

“Got into some trouble on the streets one night.” Sarge continued, unperturbed. “Good ole Lopez hopped in to save my hide, but  some bastard had a cleaver. Nasty business, that!”

“Sarge came home to the Guild Hall with a blanketed… well, I kinda freaked out-not really good with blood and all that- and Lopez kinda just -“ Simmons gestured nonsensically, still looking at the ground. “-Came back. Shook the blanket off like it was nothing.”

“How do you even do it?” Wash asked, astonished. 

“I just -“ Simmons said with a weak voice. He looked down at his hands, picking at his fingernails. He took a deep, shaky breath. “I just…do. I don’t think it, really, I can just… do it. It’s like an instinct, almost, I don’t really think about it anymore.”

Church opened his mouth to say something but raised his hands again and started pacing, muttering ‘ _ without really thinking about it  _ _ howTheFuck _ _ ’ _ .

“Not to play the voice of a skeptic.” Doc piped in quietly. “But… are you sure, Simmons? I know you… well, not really you, but  _ Grif _ , likes to mess around and do pranks. This isn’t one of those, right?”

“Oh!” Sarge said with a determined smile. “Why don’t we show you. Lopez -“

“ Saaaaarge .” Simmons pleaded.

“-Play dead.” 

Lopez looked at Sarge with a bored look. He blinked at him once, thoroughly ignoring him, before he yawned and shook his head. Then it fell off, as if he had been decapitated with an invisible axe.

Franklin and Doc shrieked, both of them clambering to get up on the barrels they had used as chairs. Wash stumbled back with a shocked gasp, his arm out to shield both Church and Tucker as if the head would turn and attack them. Caboose turned to look, blanched and said, 

“That is  bad .”

“What the  _ hell _ ?!” Church said, not protesting Wash’s  protective arm, whose movement quite frankly surprised Wash as well. Of all the people Wash would think to protect from harm, the angry cryomancer was not on the top of the list. 

“Goddamnit, Sarge!” Grif said with an agitated groan as he looked around for possible spectators. “What if someone  saw that shit ?”

“But no one  did , did they?” Sarge said with a raised eyebrow.

Wash had to bite back the bile threatening to bubble up in his throat. A shiver went up his spine as he stared into Lopez’s eyes slowly going blank.  Gentle trickles of blood streamed from the wound, and Wash’s eyes seemed to focus on that macabre sight as his mind blanked in horror. He could barely get a  sentence together in his head and his body felt stiff and rigid like a statue, locked in a protective stance before Church and Tucker.

Then a drop of blood rose from the ground as black smoke seemed to emerge from the very ground. A few more drops flew up, and with a disturbingly echo ing _ snap _ of Simmons’s fingers that Wash could almost feel in his bones , the head rolled back to the neck and Lopez blinked, shook his head and sat down on his haunches again, gnawing at a piece of frayed rope.

“Oh.” Doc said. “Oh.”

“Whatever necromancy is -“ Church said weakly. “- _ That _ ain’t it.”

“I  _ told  _ you it was different.” Simmons said quietly, back to fidgeting with his fingers. “Please stop staring at me.”

“Uh, no, fuck that,  I’mma settle for some staring, dude.” Tucker said with an astonished laugh. He rubbed his face with his hand, still  laughing slightly. “I mean… I-I, no. Nope. Just nope, I cannot  _ believe _ I just fucking saw that.”

Simmons shrugged helplessly as Grif just rolled his eyes with a “It’s not  _ that _ weird, stop freaking him out!”

“ Yes, it is !” Church and Tucker cried at the same time.

“Don’t get me wrong, dude, that’s fucking  _ god tier _ magic, but it’s also weird as shit.” Tucker trailed of, his eyes twitching. “ Wait… _ this place _ still  worships the gods you had  _ before _ , right?  Before this became part of the Commonwealth?  They didn’t do a trademark Mainland Potentian God thing and just up and abandoned you, right?”

Simmons’s brow furrowed. “I… think so? Yeah, most people here still hold onto our old Pantheon before the war. We’re a pretty superstitious folk.”

“Yeah, and your island’s a fucking dragon skeleton; you guys get to be suspicious. Point is… do the gods ever come down, y’know, like they do on the isles on occasion and just -“ Tucker threaded his finger s together with a glint in his eye s . “- _ do _ _ it _ ? With their worshippers?”

Wash couldn’t help the groan that came out of his mouth, and he pinched his  nose bridge in an attempt to focus on something else. “We just witnessed  _ that _ and you -“

“ Oooooh , I get it.” Grif said, pointing to Tucker with a click of his tongue. “I got you man. He’s wondering if you’re half-god or not.”

“WHAT?!” Simmons shrieked. “No!”

“It’s possible.” Tucker said, winking at Grif. “See, great minds think alike. You sure your gods never did that? It would explain that really messed up power because  _ holy fuck _ .”

“I can’t believe  th -“ Church looked between the trio. “We just witnessed  _ that shit _ and you guys joke about gods boning humans?!”

“I don’t see  _ you _ spitting out theories, oh powerful Battlemage!” Tucker argued back with a smile. “See, totally settled; Simmons’s a half-god. Case closed. Settled.  I’m a genius.  We can continue on this nightmare of a quest so that I can go home and relax!”

“I’m not agreeing with this. At all!” Simmons protested, while Grif clapped his hand on his shoulder.

“See, man.” He said, surprisingly gentle. “Told you they’d be fine with it.”

Wash sputtered.

_ Fine _ was not a word he’d use to describe his own emotions right now. His head was throbbing with the terrible images, the impossibilities of what he just witnessed and the overall absurdity of the Guild’s reaction to it. He looked back and forth between the Guild members as if they had gone insane, but found himself skipping Simmons altogether. He had seen the Guild’s surprising prowess in battle but  _ that _ was something else entirely.  _ That _ was beyond what little he knew about magic, what little he knew about  _ the world _ . It broke all rules of what he deemed possible, of what he deemed humans capable of. 

He regarded the tall pyromancer with a twinge of horror and fear, and his hand fell on  his belt, fingers gently caressing the  crossguard of his sword. He truly didn’t mean to do it, it was a mere instinct, a preparation for battle, for coming across something… monstrous. 

He removed his fingers suddenly, as if burnt, and settled for crossing his arms as he bit his lip. He couldn’t wrap his head around it, and he certainly couldn’t pretend that he was  _ fine _ ; but he also couldn’t look at Simmons and see anything horrific about him. He had come across bad people, he had come across monsters before. 

He wasn’t one of them.

“I -“ Wash started. “I’m afraid I’m at a terrible loss for words, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to wrap my head around it. But we shouldn’t stay here. We didn’t come to the harbor to dispute  this; we came to take ship.”

“Right.” Church sighed and shoved his dark locks back from his face. “Right. I guess we need to find someone who goes up to that old Dragon Order or whatever it was. Simmons… Lopez’s head not gonna do it again, right?”

“Ha, good luck telling Lopez what to do!” Sarge laughed. “He does as he pleases.”

Church looked at him for a moment. “That  _ really _ doesn’t inspire confidence. ”

“We can bring him.” Simmons said. He stopped fidgeting with his hands and looked up at him. “I promise!”

Church raised an eyebrow, and it was quiet for a few seconds, but the mage only sighed and gestured out of the alley. “Let’s go find us a  boat , then!” 

******

The thing about rogues is that they have a natural, intuitive and instinctual sense of perception. Even when dead-asleep, there is that  _ one _ part in a rogue’s brain that never shuts up, never sleeps, never stops considering its surroundings and always,  _ always _ stay vigilant for potential attacks.

Which is exactly why, when Donut thought prodding Grif with a fishing rod was a good idea , said rogue opened one eye, yawned and yanked the fishing rod straight from the smaller man’s hands.

“Not fair!” Donut proclaimed with a pout. “You weren’t even asleep!”

“Was too. That’s just how  _ good _ of a rogue I am. Never doubt me.” Grif said smugly, swinging the fishing rod around. He hunched up from his position, curled up against a stone wall that was just  _ so _ perfectly warmed up by the sun, and scanned the streets  of the harbor  for a familiar group of misfits.

“Did they find anything, yet?” 

Donut shrugged, a perfectly neutral maneuver that could only mean that Donut was very, very, very much not neutral about the subject. “Simmons managed to find a mean, nasty-looking fisherman who didn’t mind some extra cargo on his boat, as long as we stay on deck. How long does it take to get  to… The Skull?”

“Sometime, I think.” Grif yawned again. He poked at Donut’s arm with the fishing rod. “And you’re in luck; I think we’re gonna have rain.”

“Oh? It looks sunny to me.” 

Grif smiled and tapped his nose. “Can’t fool this thing. I can smell a storm coming days away. Former sailors know their shit, y’know.”

Donut only hummed as he moved to stand next to Grif, leaning back against the wall. He inhaled the air, scrunched his nose slightly at the fish-smell no doubt, before looking at Grif. 

Again, it was a rogue-thing. Grif knew the question before he had even asked it.

“So… About Simmons?”

“What about him?” Grif said. It came out far too aggressive than what Donut’s tone had called for, but Grif couldn’t truly help it.  After years of knowing Simmons, resurrection-skills-included, he found himself ready to defend him at the drop of a hat, tooth and claws and all. 

Donut didn’t seem to care about the tone. He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and bit his lip, seemingly lost in thought. They were locked in silence for a while . Grif pretended he was just content with staring out into the ocean, enjoying the sound of the waves crashing against the stone piers, but alas; rogue-thing. He couldn’t block out the nervous fidget of Donut’s fingers or the way he picked at his nails. 

Normal thing for most people, who didn’t have the luxury of being able to care for their cuticles. Donut, however, did. 

“Just ask.” Grif gave in with a groan.

“Has he always been able to do that?” Donut said straight away, apparently waiting for Grif’s approval before speaking. He hunched down, threw a distrusting glance at oddly colored puddle, shifted his cloak away from it and moved to look at him .

Grif shrugged. “For as long as I have known him, at least.  I think he’s just born with it. Tucker might not be that far off -“

Donut stared at him, unblinkingly. “Wait. What?”

Grif snorted. He turned around in search for a very particularly tall tower that would stretch to the sky and beyond, but alas, the city didn’t seem to have one. “Fuck it, I forgot you were from the mainlands. Ever noticed how other countries have like this…  _ really _ tall towers that just stretch on and on and on? Big cities usually have them, surprised Backwash doesn’t.”

“Uh, no.” Donut said, again sounding terribly confused. He stretched around to search the sky as well. “What about them?”

“God towers. Merchant’s Solace have one. The gods use them to pop up and down on occasion and say ‘hi’ to the people. I think Nochkit has one, maybe up north near The Skull. But, as we all know, you  _ proper Potentians _ don’t have any god towers. The gods that had you were apparently fed up  with your bullshit  and destroyed them all.”

“Uh-huh. And what’s this got to do with Simmons?”

“Listen,” Grif said, an authoritative finger pointed towards Donut, whose eyes doubled in size as he scooted closer. Grif continued on, with a small grin, “I’m not saying that all of them - _ don’t come for me,  _ _ Phelee _ \- do it, but I heard a rumor that one or two pop down on occasion and have a demigod or two. I’m just saying.”

“ Nooo ? Really?” Donut’s mouth fell open. Then it closed, and he looked at Grif with narrow eyes. “You’re not making this up, are you?”

“On my honor, for what it’s worth.” Grif said and placed his hand on the wrong side of his chest. Donut gently grabbed his hand and placed it over his heart. 

“But is he…?” Donut gestured vaguely. Again, Grif shrugged.

“Don’t know. Seems like it goes beyond what necromancers can usually do, if you listen ed to Church’s high-pitched screech about it, but I don’t know. I don’t care. It doesn’t make a difference. He’s still Simmons.”

“Obviously.” Donut said fiercely, and Grif couldn’t help but smile a little bit at Donut’s tone. He didn’t doubt the Seer’s loyalty, he just doubted that  _ some other people _ would be able to treat him normally after it.

_ And on that subject _ , he thought as he saw a familiar, dark-blonde head stick up from the crowd.

“Let’s get this thing over with.” 

As the rest of the Guild came into view, Grif scanned the faces  of the Blues and Simmons, respectively. No one seemed particularly agitated or fearful, even Wash had dropped the ‘ _ I am suspicious of everything that moves unless it’s the royal family, all hail the King _ ’-look as they came forward. He tried to  _ not _ immediately sprint to Simmons’s side and growl at the others like an aggressive, protective dog.

It failed horrendously. 

“I’m fine, Grif . ” Simmons said in a mix of exasperation and fondness as Grif came near them.

“I didn’t say a nything! ” Grif insisted as he gave every other Guild member a proper look. Simmons seemed fine, he didn’t fidget nervously with his hands and he didn’t look down at the ground. _ Ok, good, no one was stupid enough to give him shit, moving on _ .

“Y’know,  _ this _ is why I insisted that you stayed behind when we went boat-hunting, right?” Simmons raised an eyebrow. 

Grif feigned innocence.

“You’re growling at them.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re glaring at Church.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are!” Church insisted. He spread his hands. “What have I done now?”

Grif snorted, but smiled a little bit. He could see Simmons relaxing a bit in his peripheral. It was just the normal, regular bickering, like nothing had changed at all.  So, the Blues  _ can _ play nice… ish . “Do you want to see the list? I have a list.”

“No, you don’t.” Church cocked his head in Simmons’s direction. “ He does. The nerd loves his lists.”

“They’re efficient!” Simmons protested, more out of habit than anything else. Grif could see the light in his eyes though. Back to normal. Everything is ok.

“See?” Grif said as the rest of the Guild walked towards Donut, relaying the news and preparing to pack their things. He had grabbed the other man’s elbow to stop him, but now that no one could see them, Sarge to be particular, he tapped Simmons hand and smiled when the other man grasped his. “Still got your back.” 

Simmons shook his head with a small smile. “You should still not growl at people.” 

“Tell that to Church.” Grif said. He yanked the other man down to his level and kissed his temple. 

And then he smiled privately as Simmons grasped his hand a little bit tighter. 


	33. Nothing like a bit of gossip on a stormy night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I walked around the entire last week, in the midst of the chaos of pre-moving, like 'I've forgotten SOMETHING'.  
> I figured it out TODAY. Well done me! 
> 
> And I am STILL on my laptop with the STILL terrible layout, will find the energy to fix that manually sometime today; but I thought it was best to ship this chapter away before I forget again.  
> Stay safe!

**The Sea Northwest of Nochkit**

The fishing boat seemed to bend to every will of the sea. Every wave crashed against it violently, showering the people onboard with freezing droplets. A violent thrash would rock the boat to the point where Wash couldn’t help but whisper prayers to the Mother of the Sky as he was flung against other Guild members.

  
They had found a fishing boat in Backwash, one that often travelled up north to fish and trade with travelers and those of the Dragon Marshal Order. With a few quick words, and a few quick coins, Simmons had managed to convince a captain to, once more, allow a few extra boxes of cargo. A frustrating irony, given that this time they were more or less treated exactly like cargo, forced to endure the harsh weather up on deck, hidden beneath water-proofed squares of material strung across the deck so that they could huddle beneath it, freezing and miserable.

  
Wash accepted the skin coming his way, drinking a small fill of a surprisingly warm liquid, sharp in flavor and he couldn’t help but search the huddled group for Doc.  
Only Tucker’s teal cloak stood out in the mix of dull and muted colors, especially darkened by the equally dark and stormy sky. Wash blinked away a raindrop that had managed to find its way down their hideout, and he could finally make out a Doc-shaped person hiding beneath a dark-green cloak, mainly because the man sat fiddling with his glasses.

  
“Doc?” He had to speak up quite loudly for it to carry over the rough weather.

  
“Yes? Did someone say my name- Oh, oh, yes, it is!” Doc said as he located the source of the noise. He warmed his hands and nodded towards the skin that Wash had lifted in the air with a questioning look. “It’s mulled wine. Not unlike the one you have at home, I imagine. Pretty good for being made on the road, I’ll say. Simmons warmed it up!”

  
“Not to complain, Simmons, but if I may-“ Wash looked around the mix of hoods. One stirred and looked up. “-I’m assuming there’s a reason we cannot all be warm and dry? With the help of your pyromancy magic, I mean.”

  
“Yeah.” Simmons sighed. “Magic is… well, we think it is, at least, emanating from the earth. The longer distance from it, the less energy we can find in the air. Magic on the open sea is used sparingly, very sparingly. I don’t want to empty the area of magic to make us cozy, in case something happens… Church will probably need all of it for healing.”

  
“In case one of us gets impaled by a rogue fishing spear.” Church added. He pushed some of his hair away. The normally gently waved, long bob had turned slick and wet, plastering to his face. He had braved to shake his head free of droplets once, not unlike a dog, and it had sparked a three-minute argument with the neighboring members. He tucked some hair strands behind his ear with an audible mutter.

  
“Quit bitching!” Tucker said. He had his hood curled around him like his life depended on it, protecting every hair on his head. “I don’t wanna hear about your hair being a mess, none of you have this hair texture!”

  
“Tucker’s hair goes poof!” Caboose explained very seriously to Wash, as the latter looked between the group for an explanation. “It looks very nice.”

  
“Can someone please stop hogging the wine?!” Grif said, daring to look out from beneath his hood with an accusing look. He brought his hands forwards, gesturing wildly. “Give.”

  
“My apologies.” Wash said quickly. “It was not my intention, I got distracted.” 

  
“So,” Grif clicked his tongue and looked around the group. “This is way too miserable.”

  
“You can’t go to the cabin, private.” Sarge added immediately. “You heard the Cap, we can’t all fit and we’re staying here!”

  
“Fine, fine. But we’re not just gonna sit here and be miserable for freaking hours, that’s all I’m saying. The storm’s not gonna let up anytime soon, but we can always try to make time pass. “ Grif wiggled the wineskin in front of him. “Never have I ever-“

  
A cacophony of groans and protests echoed amongst the group. Grif continued on, utterly unperturbed,

  
“Never have I ever… Fuck it, we’re switching game. Wash, fencer?”

  
“Yes?” 

  
“Best place to take a nap in the castle?”

  
Wash’s brow furrowed. “I don’t see how this is a game. And when I was not on duty, I was surely not finding places to nap. My duty was protecting the prince-“

  
“Oh yeah, which one?” 

  
“The little one. The one who always hid.” Doc chimed in with a stage whisper, leaning over to Grif. 

  
“Aaaaaw, little Evan?” A coo erupted from another bundle of cloth that could only be Franklin. “Bless his heart, he’s so cute! I’ve seen him… well, kinda, like, from really afar.”

  
“I will not discuss the princes with you, it is disrespectful.” Wash said with a gentle sigh. Any topic that served as a reminder of his former life would sting horribly, but through relentless teasing and poking from the Guild, it had cooled somewhat. He had learned that lashing out, treating the subject with vehement anger and resentment would not work to desist the Guild. At all. And so, a gentle reprimand would often be more successful… He hoped.

  
“How’s he holding up?” Church said, breaking Wash’s new theory in pieces. He picked at his fingernails with a distinct nonchalant boredom, but his tone was oddly urgent.

  
“Pardon? The Epsilon?” 

  
“Yeah, you were his bodyguard. And I’m pretty sure he actually liked you, in his own way. Still not talking?” 

  
“No.” Wash said earnestly, surprised by the mage’s words. He had certainly hoped that the Epsilon would warm up to him eventually, but he can’t say that he saw much improvement. “A little bit, perhaps, but it was very rare. He was getting out of his shell, with small steps, but I’m quite certain my expungement made it far worse. He’s…” He broke off there, somewhat embarrassed. He had just said that he was not going to discuss the princes, immediately followed by him talking about the most reclusive of them all. 

  
“So, no napping?” Grif broke the tense silence. “Like at all?”

  
“I slept in my bed, Grif.” Wash responded with a raised eyebrow. “That’s usually what beds are for.”

  
“Yeah, but that doesn’t count- oh, wait, do I detect some snark?” 

  
“No.” Wash blurted out, and he was for once quite pleased with the lack of light in their shelter. He could feel the red tinging his cheeks.

  
“Yes, it was!” Grif laughed. “We’re getting through to you.”

  
“One of us, one of us, one of us!” Tucker piped in immediately with a rhythmic clapping.

  
“Enough, please desist!” Wash pleaded. “If it stops the both of you, York told me that he often slept in the upper gardens when he had the time.”

  
“The upper gardens?” Church snorted. “Leave it to York to be able to sleep next to a waterfall.”

  
“They have waterfalls? In their homes?”

  
“Welcome to the richest family on the southern hemisphere.” Church wistfully, making a grand gesture with his arm. “Waterfalls, royal baths scented with lavender, saunas- fuck, this is depressing. Can’t this storm stop?”

  
“Nowhere near the end of it, dude.” Grif said after he peaked his head out to get a look at the sky. “Right, next question; Wash!”

  
“What?” 

  
“Have you ever tasted food that was meant for royalty? Like sneak off some of Epsie’s food?”

  
“Certainly not.” Wash’s cheek twitched slightly at Epsie. Of all nicknames he had heard for the Epsilon, that was quite an interesting one. “The prince had a taster, naturally.”

  
“Uuugh, Wash!” Franklin groaned. “That’s not what he meant, at all.”

  
He reddened slightly. “I’m starting to feel like this is becoming an interrogation, and I do not approve of it. Not much of a game if the only goal is to pry slanderous statements out of me!” 

  
“Fine, I’ll switch.” Grif took a swig of the mulled wine. He waited for a few seconds, clicking his tongue. He then snorted a laugh, a terribly ominous sound. “Church! Which one was better in bed; Tucker or Tex?”

  
Church snorted. “Tex. Easy money.”

  
“Hey!” Tucker grabbed Church’s hood and wrung it over his head, ignoring the yelp of the healer. “You were shit too!”

  
Wash blinked, looking between the two vague humanish blobs of cloth casually fighting in front of him. He looked around him for someone else to look shocked, surprised or laugh at the very obvious joke, but the Guild mainly sighed and tried to avoid the two swatting at each other.

  
He could privately admit that he didn’t have much any experience with romantic relationships -a terribly awkward crush on lady Florida did certainly not count- but he would not have been able to pin Church and Tucker as romantic in any way shape or form. Or did they perhaps just engage… once and then left it at that _by the mountains, David, stop imagining it._

  
“I am sorry, but could I perhaps inquire about… that comment?” He said without realizing, much regretting his words. 

  
“Ah yes, let us all recollect the great romance between our resident rebel rogue and our hateful, homeless healer!” Grif laughed, to the excited glee of Franklin and the groans and protests from the rest of the team. “Shut up, Wash asked us a question! You see, Wash, it all began around five years ago, when Cappie was the leader of Blue team-“ He winced slightly as Tucker kicked his shin, but continued, “-And Church had just found a Crowclimber refugee hiding in the druid’s backyard. Cappie being… Cappie, decided to take him in instead of, y’know, turning him to the authorities and getting him executed. Huzzah for the one guy in Kingslight with some humanity-“

  
“Pardon?” Wash protested. “Plenty of citizens show Samaritan qualities.”

  
“What, a noble and a working class not having the same experience? How shocking!” Grif rolled his eyes and took another swig, before reluctantly handing it to Simmons, who gave him quite a stern look.

  
“It was just two guys having a go at each other fucking once, nothing big!” Tucker added, and only glared slightly when Franklin ‘aaw’ed in disappointment. 

  
“But were you still… y’know… together when Church left for Sidewinder?” Franklin pressed on, shimmying closer with his head resting in his hands. 

  
“We were never together, for the love of the gods. Like Tucker said; one. time. We were bored, sue us.” Church rolled his eyes.

  
“So, yes? A tearful goodbye as one left to fight in the war and the other was left behind? Always worrying if the other would come back, if he would see his loved one return one day to the fanfare of the city as the soldiers were welcomed back with open arms, Heroes of the country and loyal subjects of the King-“

  
“By the mountains, Donut!” Church groaned, pinching his nose bridge. “You’re never gonna shut up about it now, are you?”

  
“Oooh but it’s sooo good, Church!” Franklin said, slapping his knee excitedly. “Oh, oh, I can see it in my head already. The tall, valiant soldier kissing his loved one. The rest of the soldiers telling him that they need to leave, but he refuses to go and kisses his lover one last time-“

  
“Have mercy, man!” Tucker almost shrieked. His head was buried in his hands. “Gods, this is the freaking worst. It was nothing like that!”

  
“Wasn’t it, like, exactly like that, though?” Grif said with a predatory grin, the flash of white teeth visible with the aid of flashing lightning. “Didn’t that short, stocky dude almost toss a bench at you because you were late?”

  
“Ok, while that sounds like Gallagher-“ Church admitted. “-That’s pretty much the only part of the story that’s true.”

  
"I see none of the Blues care about the fraternization laws!" Sarge added with a grunt. "Leave it to Florida to not teach his men about proper conduct."

  
"One. fucking time. Sarge." Church said, somewhat muffled as he had pulled his cloak over his head in an attempt to either completely hide himself from the conversation or attempt to suffocate himself.

  
Still, Sarge's comment made Wash frown a bit. His own two Guild members were certainly not better, as even someone who had only briefly known them could've seen that Grif and Simmons were -at the very least- more than just friends. 

  
He looked up and found the Simmons-shaped-bundle squirm somewhat terrible and he was hit with the realization that whatever Grif and Simmons's relationship were, it must certainly be something illegal. Wash opened his mouth, stupidly so, to inquire about it, before shutting it tight with a jarring click. 

  
It was certainly something of interest, as it did tug at Wash's sense of conduct and moral to uphold the laws of the Guild; and certainly he could not be expected to withhold information about two team members to their superior officer, but... it felt oddly close to treason to tell Sarge vs. the option to not tell and to keep it quiet. He didn't like the contrasting feelings, as he knew perfectly well what honor and conduct would tell him to do. Tell Sarge.

  
But... no. He couldn't find himself to do it.

  
“If I may,” Wash chimed in, trying to change the terribly awkward subject., and to further ease his mind. “Was this.. short, stocky man a member of the Guild? I only know of the group here. Are there more?”

  
Church shook his head. “We used to be a pretty big group. But some left for Sidewinder and we all fucking know how that went, and only Tucker was back when we came home. Well, when I came home, I guess.” 

  
Wash did not, in fact, know exactly how that went, but he could piece together some of the puzzle pieces. While the death of Captain Flowers reached the Keep quite quickly, and left poor Lady Florida terribly unhappy, he had not considered that there were perhaps a couple of soldiers caught in the massacre as well. He knew little of the event, the gruesome story hushed down to work for the more fragile minds. He knew there was a snowstorm, not particularly unusual in Whitemount, and that the Captain had been trapped in the ruins of Sidewinder by adversaries; Scanian spies, no doubt. When he attempted to escape, valiantly killing most of the intruders, he got shot in the lung and left in the snow.

  
He opened his mouth to further inquire about the details, since Church seemed to have some experience, perhaps as one of the soldiers accompanying the Captain down, but he thought better of it. It seemed cruel, much crueler than what seemed proper, to dig for war details from someone when they had little means to escape the conversation.

  
He was curious, he had to admit. Damned curious, even, but it would wait. Should Church refuse to answer, he could perhaps seek the answers from someone else.

  
“Well, this turned grim.” Tucker whistled, echoing Wash’s sentiments perfectly. “So, since apparently the game is to ask really weird questions; on a scale of 1 to 100, how certain are you that you’re not part Death God, Simmons?”

  
Simmons groaned and shimmied further away from the rogue, to the amused snorts of the remaining Guild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am, once again, curious on whether or not the mentions of the past relations should be tagged? It will only really be mentioned once, and certainly not explored further. Thoughts?


	34. ‘How to alienate your child step 1’ by King Leonard I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I emerge from the darkness to give you ONE chapter.  
> I will return.  
> Let me summarise the reason why this hasn't been updated:
> 
> September-me: Awesome, I've moved and I'm ready for school. Now I'm gonna have time to start posting again-  
> First term of Uni: lol u thought
> 
> Stay hydrated, stay safe!

** Capitol of Potentia, Kingslight **

** The Meteor Fortress Keep **

“You spend too much time in the library.”

Derek looked up. “Pardon, sir?”

He could see servants grimace slightly at the tone of the King, and one halted in pouring the water in Derek’s cup. The late dinner had barely been touched by both parties. Derek himself had little appetite; caught in the tormenting, pregnant silence that seemed permanent in the King’s solar. He wasn’t much for small talk, whispers of him lacking skills in anything social a permanent reminder of his ineptitude, and what miniscule skills he might’ve had glared with its absence as soon as the King was present.

He had often pondered if the King was pleased with the image he projected, the cold ruthlessness that seemed more apt for a military leader than a ruler. He happened to have remembered many Ecclesian regents in the past known for benevolence, but he logically concluded that no historian would write King Leonard I as being anything other than cold and calculative.

“Enough!” Said the King harshly, and Derek was violently brought back into the room again, his eyes forcing themselves back to his father. He was caught between the options of sitting up straighter to look more respectable and ignoring the notion entirely, in fear of his father pointing it out and masking the comment as an excuse to go into _yet another_ tirade of Derek’s ineptitude as his heir.

“People have already deemed you a shut-in and you seemed determined to make it worse. Do I have to order someone to drag you out in the sun like a child? I thought someone of your _intelligence_ would know the beneficial quality of spending time outdoors.”

“I am outdoors, sir, on occasion.” Derek hid a small grimace, it only showing as a twitch of his lip. It was a childish comment, and he would no doubt be continuously reprimanded for it. “When I am not sparring, attending lessons or meetings I thought my free time was, by its very name, free to spend however I see fit.”

“You’re not studying, you’re hiding.” The King replied immediately, the lecture out before Derek had time to close his mouth. _Hiding._ He thought of Orion then, and found himself staring at a spot on the table, his mouth turning dry. “Our country cannot have its heir behind the books every waking hour. And as its heir, you know as well as the rest of our family that no hours of the day are our own. _Look me in the eye, Derek_ -“ Derek fixed his father with, what he hoped was, an impassive look. “I am not pleased with this situation either, and I will not coddle you and say that you are fit to take the throne. But you _will_ , regardless of your personal feelings on the matter. You’re not half the crown prince Leonard was, but here we sit, and inaction will lead to your ruin.”

Derek bit the inside of his cheek and tried to ignore the way his stomach churned at the cruel words. He quite agreed on some part, that he himself was not fit to rule, but the King had a harshness to his tone that made him flinch slightly.

“Derek.”

“Yes, sir.” Derek responded, more quietly than what he had hoped. He _couldn’t_ show weakness to his father, he _wouldn’t_.

“You cannot, and will not, rule by sitting quiet and let everyone talk over you. By that rule you’d be a puppet monarch by the second day.”

“What would you have me do, sir?” Derek responded with a gentle sigh. It was quite impossible to win the conversation, at this point he only felt like he had to endure it.

“Damn you.” Said the King with a shake of his head and a snap of his finger. A servant hurried to his side to pour more wine into his cup. “I tell you not to be a puppet and here you wait for me to give you an order.”

“I am sorry to have disappointed you.”

“Enough, do you not think I can see through that?” He took a small sip of his wine, staring at Derek with cold, green eyes. “You are not _half_ as smart as you think you are. Are you hoping to escape the throne by projected ineptitude? Do not speak to me like a child, do you not see? There is one way to remove you from the line, and I doubt you wish to entertain it. This is your path, and you will not act spiteful or ungrateful with it, or by the gods that _escape_ from the throne may come sooner than you think.”

_The threat of murder, again._ Derek thought with little amusement, trying hard to ignore the spike of worry threatening to upheave what little of the meal he had managed to swallow. _He must be in a worse mood than usual._

“You will not enter the library for a fortnight. Find something else to do in your spare time. If I find you in a corner, I’ll have someone drag you out. Dismissed.”

Derek stood up immediately, and the scraping of his chair seemed to almost echo in the large solar. He bowed and left, almost sprinting to get out of the room.

“I hate to say this-“ came a yawn from Derek’s left as he exited the room. York looked at him with a worried crease between his eyebrows. “But you seem to be antagonizing him on purpose, Dee. What’s up?”

Derek tried to, for the fourteenth time that day, to push down the flutter of his stomach every time York used his nickname. He settled for giving his bodyguard a passive look as he corrected his collar slightly.

“Nothing is ‘up’, York.” He denied. “But I cannot seem to find a way to please him. I suppose I have grown tired of trying, and complacency seemed to be the better option.”

York said nothing, looking off in the distance.

“This is the first time I’m the one who speaks and you’re the one who is silent.” Derek remarked coolly. On the inside, he tried to calm his worried thoughts. _Did I say something wrong? Did I miss something?_

“He’s not _that_ wrong, really. Not about this, at least.” York said at last. “Perhaps we should find something else to occupy us. There’s swordplay, diplomatic issues we can assist with; getting to know the citizens better. If you are to rule the people, you should know them.”

“I do not need _you_ to lecture me, too, York!” Derek’s sharp tone surprised even himself. York only regarded him with a look that seemed a mix of mild annoyance and pity. Derek ignored it and found himself walking, as if in an effort to wander the anger away.

“I can hear you sighing.” Derek said at last.

“I just know that I stepped on the wrong foot, that’s all. So, will you at least tell me what you’re studying?”

Derek knew perfectly well that it was York’s way of both apologizing and to distract him, trying his best to make Derek enthuse about something he loved in an effort to lessen the after-effects of his dinner with the King. He smiled privately, touched by the effort.

“Ooor-“ York said at the silence. “-Am I just to assume that it’s the curse and/or Sigma?”

“There is precious little on my dear brother, a cursed subject to begin with, as opposed to the curse… And yes, York, I see the pun, thank you. But to answer your question; I suppose I am tackling both.”

“Well then.” York said. “You have my full attention. Thoughts on the curse?”

Derek pondered for a few seconds, trying to fit all the collective finds he had done into a coherent lecture. “I am trying to map the curse out. The Grand Seer seemed to have gotten the shape of the curse out of nowhere, _but_ there is also the possibility that those who built it thought to have it stretch the entire Commonwealth. One point in the northwestern point of Nochkit, the other in the northeast of the Egeniella Isles. It covers it almost too perfectly to be a coincidence.”

“Well, If _I_ was making a memory curse that affects the heir to the entire Commonwealth, it would make sense to have it cover the country.”

“Indeed, so-“ Derek looked up to York. “-What about the areas outside of it? It’s easy to think us as the center of the world, but surely the loss of the Potentian heir is news everywhere else as well?”

“Oh, you Potentians.” York laughed. “Not everyone’s obsessed with you. The rest of the world has its own issues. I believe we are fairly isolated from the rest of the world, with the stormy seas surrounding us.”

“Regardless-“ Derek rolled his eyes. “It is getting increasingly obvious that this curse was not made by a single person. It’s taken me the better part of the month and I hardly know where to start.”

York stopped in his track to laugh slightly. Derek turned to him with an annoyed glare.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just very _you_ to go 'well if _I_ can't figure it out, surely no one else can. _Has_ to be a whole group of people'. The day where you find someone smarter than you; your head's gonna explode."

"I am not claiming to be the best -no, stop it, I am not- it is however something I am very good at.” Derek shook his head and continued, subdued, “ _This_ is what I should be doing, this is something I can accomplish. I wasn't made for... for ruling."

"Gods, Dee. Need a hug?"

"No." Derek said immediately, ignoring how his heart started to beat at an alarming pace.

“Uh-huh.” York laughed, completely unperturbed and unknowing. “So, I don’t suppose you are trying to solve this curse out of the kindness of your heart?”

“…Must I say it?”

“Yup.”

“Then fine.” Derek admitted quietly. “Yes, I would be quite pleased to have Leo back. He's a much better fit. He never failed to speak his mind-" Derek stopped in his tracks. His head seemed to beat at the same pace as his heart, both racing with pain. He grimaced and shook his head, trying to ignore the sudden onslaught of a migraine with the exhilarated discovery of recovering knowledge. He _knew_ that his older brother had been one to speak his mind at all times, often at the _most inopportune_ at moments, but he couldn’t recall what moments. He couldn’t even know for sure _how_ he was certain it was an accurate description of his brother, but he _knew it_. "Curious. Can't say I've ever been able to recollect that before."

York regarded him with a worried look. “Careful, Dee. Don’t strain it.”

“Certainly.” Derek said, barely hearing what his bodyguard had said. “We'll need to send a letter to the Reds and Blues. I am most curious to see they have any information on the triggers. Perhaps one is already broken. Let us head to the library, at once.”

“Uh, didn’t the King just-“

Derek waved the excuse away. “We might have a few hours before the guards know I am not to enter. And frankly, my father can hang; this is more important."

York sputtered. "Who are you and what have you done to the Delta?"

"Enough, York. Let us go. You can laugh at me later."

***********

“Stop laughing at me!”

“Never. It suits you, really- no, don’t you dare throw another fucking apple. Tucker, or else I’m not healing you in battle!”

Wash sighed and swiftly grabbed the apple from the smaller man, who had his hand raised with the projectile ready for launch. Tucker turned around with a ‘hey’ and Wash was temporarily transfixed by Tucker’s hair, more specifically the side that was usually tied in a beautiful braid, now free of its reins and natural in its volume.

“It’s not a bad look on you,” Wash added in an attempt to lessen the awkward silence his staring had earned.

Church snorted in the background, raising his hands in defeat as he stalked off to help load off the fishing boat.

“Thanks?” Tucker asked, hurriedly brushing part of his afro down. “It’s just in the way. Hang on, I’ll help later, I just need to… yeah.”

As he stalked off, Wash could almost hear the sneering voice, switching between the voice of South or his father; _Another masterful attempt at conversation, David_.

He rolled his shoulders and let his hand run through the short strands of hair once more. The stern echo of his father almost caused him to grab at it and rip it from his head, not too far from what his father had threatened to do many times at Avalanche, but he let it be. He focused on the chaos behind him, on the Reds and Blues (a certain marauder was apparently very prone to falling into the water whenever he tried to disembark) screaming and laughing in their natural, coarse disarray. Eventually, the cruel voice went away, and he turned back to aid Simmons and Grif in their attempt to get Lopez off of the boat.

He found himself reluctant to touch the dog at first as Lopez’s head peaked up to sniff at the pier suspiciously, and twitched slightly as Lopez turned his eyes towards him. But if the Reds could treat him normal, in their own strange way of normality, then so could he.

The fishing boat was moored at a weathered stone pier, with spindling, meandering steps leading up towards the peak of an extraordinarily tall cliff. Wash could barely look up to the top without feeling the need to sit down, his legs aching already.

The waters were still stormy, with a never-ending wind forcing the boat back and forth. Disembarking was already a chore, and with nature against them it was also quite dangerous. It took a lot of careful maneuvering and constant shouts of ‘ _careful_ ’ and ‘ _no, Caboose, stop that, don’t look down’_ before the Guild, their pets and their gear were on the pier; exhausted, cold and wet.

Wash dared, once more, to look up at the giant, dark cliff they were under in an attempt to see any sort of life on the land, but it was an impossible pursuit. He turned to look at Simmons, who had basically collapsed next to Grif, using his shoulder as a pillow. As if he could sense him, Simmons opened his eyes and nodded.

“We should move, we can’t stay here, we’ll freeze.”

“Shouldn’t we rest first?” Church added. He nodded towards the steps, weathered down by use and wind. “That doesn’t look safe, at all. We shouldn’t go up that unless we’re somewhat rested. Or less seasick.”

Doc’s violent heave of salted biscuit and pork carried quite well over the violent wind.

“Point taken. Ten minutes, then we leave. We don’t want to wait too long; those steps will not be fun to do in the dark!”

Eventually, they dared to take the first step up the cliff with only the sounds of the cruel wind to keep them company. Their supplies had been carried up with the help of a winched cage, but the fisherman had been quite adamant in that _nothing_ alive would take that route. Everything with a pulse will travel via the steps, or he is unworthy to enter upon the grounds of the Dragon Marshal Order and will be flung from the cliffs. Or so Simmons had translated, since the fisherman’s accent was so heavy it seemed a different language entirely. He led the group with the efficiency of someone quite adept at climbing the steps, and before long he was only a dark, moving speck further up on the steps.

Wash didn’t dare to look down or to his left, as one would only remind him of how far up he was and the other would only serve as a reminder for the gruesome death he would meet were he to drop to the side. He grasped at every definition on the stonewall he could grab and jutted his hand into every crack in order to bring him balance. Breathe, walk, find your bearings. Rinse and repeat.

By the time the top of the island seemed within reach, Wash’s legs were ready to cave. They wobbled with each step and his fingers had turned so cold he couldn’t bend them properly to hold onto to the stonewall to balance himself. When he saw someone lit braziers not too far from where they were, he was ready to scream from pure joy.

A person stood between the braziers, the flames marking the sides of the steps on the very top of the island. He was dressed in black, with silver details and what looked, to Wash’s eyes from the distance, like an oddly marked silver cloak, the furs colored deep red.

“Hold!” He said as they came close, and Wash’s heart dropped slightly. “The Order will receive no visitors during these times. You shall not gain entry!”

Wash’s shoulder slumped and he felt ready to collapse at the feet of the man, just as long as he could be rid of the cursed steps and get some rest.

“Of course not.” Church said, gesturing to the whole Guild. “’Cause why the fuck should anything _ever_ work in our favor?!”


	35. What happens in Sidewinder…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening~  
> It is currently 8 PM and I have been stuck in my study-cave until pretty much this moment. 
> 
> Enjoy and stay safe!

** Northwestern point of Nochkit **

** The Temple of the Dragon Marshal Order **

“We’ve travelled far!” Wash tried. “A fisherman came with us; has he been let in already?”

“You may not gain entry to our temple!” Repeated the man once more. He was fairly young, pockmarks still red and blaring on his pale skin. Tufts of blonde hair peaked out from underneath an oddly shaped, stiff hat. He cast a sneering gaze at the Guild, who no doubt looked quite ragged. “We can offer water, fire and rest for weary travelers, but our temple services are closed!”

“Wait, let me explain!” Wash urged on. “We’re Guildsmen on an urgent quest from the Delta himself. We need your aid. Just let us ask a couple of questions and we’ll be on our way!”

“Princes and peasants are equal in this place.” Said the man, quite coldly. “I will not be swayed. Either head to the grounds or be on your way.”

Wash opened his mouth to protest, but he could see that it would only fall on deaf ears. He nodded grimly and turned to the rest of the Guild. Simmons shrugged his shoulders with a despondent sigh.

The man turned at the Guild’s compliance and gestured for them to follow him. It was dark enough that it was quite difficult to see anything else besides the braziers by the step, but the man seemed to know the road by heart. It led to an alarmingly high amount of ‘oofs’ and ‘ow, ow, ow, that was my foot you DUMBASS’ and Wash was on his third apologizing grimace to the young man in front before he realized that the man could probably not see him doing so.

“Left, Wash!” Grif said suddenly, yawning. “You’re gonna trip.”

“You cannot seriously mean you can see in this darkn-“ Wash yelped as his left foot hit something sharp and he stumbled for a few seconds before he managed to catch his bearings.

“Told you.”

The voice of the young man came from somewhere in the darkness, startling most of them;

“You may camp here until dawn strikes. Then we will convene with the Grand Marshal on what to do with you.”

With a snap of his finger, a fire roared to life and Wash’s eye stung with the sudden brightness. He could then see what he had tripped on. It was a stone floor, encircled by a few lonely pillars and partially crumbled walls. The stone floor was circular in shape, with a meandering pattern leading to the center, where the roaring fire, now clearly a brazier, gave off warmth and displayed the small pile of their belongings leaning against one of the ruins.

“Ah.” Wash said. “I understand. Thank you. When can we expect-?“

“You may not _expect_ our services, only hope for them.” Said the man sharply. He let his eyes rest on every Guild member, as if trying to remember the faces of a gang of thieves and vagabonds. His eyes turned quite dark as Grif lied down next to the brazier with a yawn, stretching his limbs. “You may rest here one night, but the grounds will not house you more than one night.”

He left without any words of parting and stalked off into the night with an annoyed stomping.

“Uh-“ Tucker huffed. “Where the hell is he going?

“The temple over the- I mean, no idea.” Grif said, at first gesturing to the darkness but then he cut himself off with a cough, suddenly finding his fingernails much more interesting.

“There’s a temple?” Franklin said, looking around. “Where? Why aren’t we staying _there_ instead?”

“It’s a bit away, probably. _But_ if I remember the history books right, and of course I do-” Simmons reported as he stared into their surroundings. “They’re a bit creepy. Made of stone, small windows, pretty… grim-looking. You wouldn’t like it, Donut.”

“I like this.” Caboose declared as he patted a moss-covered pillar. He turned to Franklin, who looked somewhat skeptical. “Muffin man, be happy! Outside is nice.”

“Outside will do, I guess.” Grif agreed and leaned back against their packed belongings, yawning.

“Don’t you sit down, soldier!” Sarge berated and poked at him with his scabbard. “We have tents to bring up and food to cook.”

“I sit down for _ten seconds_ , old man!” Grif argued as he tried to shuffle away from the poking scabbard. “Ten seconds! Let a man rest, will you? There’s gonna be mutiny if you keep pushing this hard!”

“We’re not on a ship, soldier! And you ain’t a sailor no more. Get up, I ain’t telling you again!”

“Uuuugh.” Grif sighed as he rolled away one last time before standing up, yawning again.

“Tucker.” Wash overheard Church half-whisper. “Ten astari if you do my tent.”

“By the mountains, man! You _have_ to learn how to make a fucking tent eventually. How the hell did you manage to not die on your way down to Sidewinder?!”

“Uh, I _paid_ Dieter to do it for me, duh?” Church said, as if the question had been insurmountably stupid. Wash couldn’t help but smile slightly before he grabbed his belongings and started making his tent.

 _At least it’s not raining_.

For all their complaining of being cold and tired, there was a level of restlessness in their makeshift camp that led them all to circle the fire after all their tents were up, sharing a wineskin.

Church’s tent had been pitiful, to say the least, but he refused to -loudly- ask for help again. But even so, Wash could see how the giant Caboose was trying to be discreet and unseen as he tugged at the ropes a bit harder and set the sad tent a bit more up, patting himself on the shoulder as he finished; certain that no one had seen him help.

The fire whiskey had been drunk sparingly onboard the fishing boat, more as a tool for staving off misery than shared for the flavor or ease. But _now_ , after Grif had taken the first, heavy swig of the drink, most dared to take a bigger sip in fear of not getting their share before someone dared to empty it completely. Caboose had only looked at the wineskin with a confused look before he continued to warm his strawberry must over the fire with a smile.

Naturally, with the alcohol came the rowdy stories and tales that Wash had started to become used to by now. It had become an expected thing, but he couldn’t help but settle in with his cloak and listen in with more fervor than usually. He had truly been away from his Freelancer ways for too long.

Church and Tucker were locked in a story, their details becoming more and more lewd by the seconds.

“-so, that was _after_ Tucker decided to paint Rosa, y’know, his cow, with crude drawings of dicks-“

“Dude, you did it as well! Don’t give me shit for that, you hid in the goddamn bushes while Flowers was giving me an earful.”

“Giving you an earful, man? Bullshit, it’s Flowers we’re talking about. He patted your shoulder and complimented you on the, and I motherfucking quote ‘ _great anatomy’_ of your drawings.”

“Listen, some of us are just natural artists. If _you’d_ done it I bet he’d slap you-“

“Have you met your old captain, Tucker?” Grif muttered. “Like at all?”

“Barely. I was fucking wounded when I got to Kingslight, so I was left behind when…yeah.”

Church snorted. “Something tells me you would’ve died first had you followed along.”

“Hey-“

“What happened?” Wash glared at the wineskin for giving him the dumb idea to speak up. “How did Captain Flowers… perish?”

For a second, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the occasional cold wind sweeping through the grounds. Everyone looked at Church with varying degrees of worry. Said person looked down for a second, then he held a hand out.

Wash offered him the skin, and the mage took a swing of it.

“Have you ever been to the Sidewinder ruins, Washington?”

“Of course.” Wash said immediately. “My siblings and I used to play around there during the summers. It’s where the ancient Whitemount royals used to live. Sarah, my eldest sister, even claimed she saw the spirits murdered by Oliver the madman and his tamed lynxes there once.”

“The tamed _what_ now?” Grif butted in with a laugh.

“Right, so you know there’s an old fort there?” Church continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted at all. “Still _kinda_ standing even after most of it is burned down?”

Wash pondered for a minute. When he was a child, they rarely ventured inside the old castle walls. An old rusted portcullis still stood, making it difficult to squeeze through and continue the adventure. But the ruins of the city around it was still an amazing site to see, both filled with history and… fun places to hide and explore.

“Y-yes, I suppose so. We never got there, we only played in the other ruins.”

“Good man.” Church nodded. He sat there for a second, mulling something over. Then he took another swing from the wineskin.

“So, we were the last splinter of Flower’s group, waiting for a new recruit to join us in Kingslight. It was me, Gallagher, Mickey, Dieter, Jimmy and the Captain, just killing time at the tavern. When the recruit, Jenkins, finally decided to join us; we headed out towards the Washington estate. Some of the boys were heading to Scania to fight in the war, we among them.”

“Oh.” Wash said.

“Yeah, _oh_.” Church repeated, but with no real malice in the words. “We weren’t expecting much trouble; the roads had been cleared by the scouts and the groups before us. All we had to do was fight off the occasional straggler still surviving after the encounters from the rest of the Blues.

“There was nothing out of the ordinary, so when the snowstorm hit, we were fucked. It was a couple of cold days trekking through the snow. We were damn near prepared for killing one of our horses for food. That’s when they hit us. We didn’t know who they were, hell we still don’t, but before we knew it our horses were getting killed off, our supplies stolen. That’s when Jimmy saw the Sidewinder ruins, and we tried our best to hide. That’s when they started to make themselves known for real. Gallagher got shot in the leg, and Jimmy lost an eye to an arrow that damn near pierced his skull. One by one we were wounded, but never killed. Like we were being toyed with.

“Days went by, and the damn cold seeped into our bones. I can’t even recall if it was three days or three weeks. The snow killed the light, and to all of us it was like hiding in an eternal, cold darkness. I think we almost lost our minds for a time. Dieter probably did permanently. Mickey stopped talking after a while, two or three days maybe. When I went to check on him, he fell, eyes open with frost covering them. He had died and we hadn’t even noticed. So, we gathered our last strengths and tried to find somewhere warmer. We hid in a cellar, tried to gather wood for a fire. If we were going to die, at least we’d spend our last moments warm.”

“How did you get out?” Wash asked. Another cold wind tickled his ear but he chose to ignore it.

The side of Church’s mouth twitched. With a twist of his hand he summoned a swirl of snow and ice, gently encasing his palm. “With magic. For a time, when the curse hit, all magic was gone from the lands. But it didn’t last forever. It…kinda came back that day, actually. Dumb luck.”

“I remember when all the energy was just gone and we couldn’t use our magic, ugh. Just for a year, thank the gods.” Simmons sighed. “I was never any good with melee weapons, can you imagine me with, like, a warhammer? Or an axe?”

The rest of the group scoffed and issued gentle teasing words.

“It saved our lives. I’m a cryomancer by nature, and with the snowstorm around us I barely had to lift a finger to end all of our enemies. But I couldn’t save all of my team.” Church shook his head, staring into the flames with an odd, distant look. “Dieter got killed trying to be a hero, and Jimmy got ambushed when we thought we had got them all. Then, Flowers got an arrow to the lung trying to save _me_ , that damn fool.”

“He was very fond of you, man. You can’t blame yourself for this.” Tucker offered, uncharacteristically gentle. 

“Doesn’t make him any smarter. I tried to save him, but… I barely knew any restoration magic then. For all I know I might’ve been the one killing him. When the storm finally subsided, we buried them as well as we could. Jenkins and I had to carry Gallagher to the nearest town, and by then the rot had taken the leg. We had to chop it off. I…I don’t think he ever forgave me for that.”

“Are they still alive?” Wash asked.

Church bit his lip in thought. “Jenkin’s alive. He wrote a damn journal about what happened, selling the story off. I think he’s got an honorary spot in the Shield. Good kid, but a bit dumb. And if Gallagher hasn’t killed himself for losing his leg, he’s probably back in Kingslight with his family.

“We never got to leave for Scania. After all that had happened, I just went back to the Guild Hall with what little I had from Flowers.”

“Mhm.” Tucker hummed and tugged his turquoise cloak closer to him. Wash’s eyebrows flew up.

“Wait, is that-?”

“Cappie’s old cloak?” Tucker finished for him with a smile. “Yeah. I guess I’m a sentimental at heart, ey?”

“He liked the color.” Church deadpanned as he poked into the fire with a stick.

“Don’t ruin it, I wanted to look good.” Tucker sighed and rolled his eyes. “…But it is a damn dope color.”

“Did you keep anything of Flowers for yourself?” Wash couldn’t help but take a quick look at Church’s person, trying to find something that screamed ‘kind old druid’, but the mage shook his head.

“I was still…kinda pissed at him. We all deal with loss differently, I guess. I had an amulet, the one I got from him the day he found me, but I tossed it away. It’s somewhere on the bottom of Lake Astari by now.”

Wash’s eyebrows furrowed once more. “When he _found_ you?”

Church snorted at that. “Right, ‘cause I’m not done monologuing just yet. Yeah, he _found_ me. When the curse hit, I woke up one morning not remembering a damn thing about myself. It happened to some; I suppose. Most common in mages. A memory curse _that_ big is sure to mess with people’s head.”

Wash blinked. Something in the back of his mind clicked at that, as if it had been mentioned in passing ages ago. He had few acquaintances with an arcane flair and had little reason to have experienced it first hand, the oddity lost to the overall chaos the curse brought. A sting of sympathy hit him though, and he grimaced with both compassion and the very _idea_ of something similar happening to him. Surely, it must’ve been a nightmare for those afflicted.

“A few I knew couldn’t recollect they ever knew magic. But it was better than the alternative. Some went mad when they lost their magic.” Simmons shook his head. “It was… just chaos.”

“Did you-“

“No, I never lost my memory.” Simmons shuddered. “Hell, imagine me forgetting I could-“ He stopped and looked at the sleeping Lopez. “That would’ve been a disaster.”

Grif looked at him then, his eyes worried and understanding. He sat closer to his lover, and covered him with a bit of his own blanket.

“I, however, _did_ lose my memory, for about a year. Pretty fucking scary, don’t recommend it.” Church continued. “Flowers took me in damn quickly when I told him I couldn’t remember anything.”

“Where did he find you?”

Church raised an eyebrow with a small smile. He sipped on some fire whiskey before continuing. “What’s my name?”

“What? _Church-_ oh. Oh, is that where he found… Did he give you that name?”

Church shook his shoulders. “Works as well as any name, I guess. Most people either called me _Church_ or just _The Stray_. I followed Flowers around like he was a goddamn lifeline for a while.”

“Wait, the Stray? I think I’ve heard of you.” Donut pointed at him. “Lady Florida talks about you every now and then.”

“Wooooonderful.” Church muttered.

“Man, you were so pathetic back then.” Tucker sighed wistfully, casually tapping the pipe as ashes fell out from its hole. “All ‘ _yes, sir’_ and _‘I adore you, sir’_ and _‘Can I call you dad, sir_?’”

“I never fucking said _that_!” Church screeched, reaching his high-pitched whistle, his face flushed and embarrassed. Lopez looked up in confusion as if Sarge had whistled at him.

Wash smiled. “Yes, I remember him. He was a… paternal type of man. I’m not surprised you thought of him as a father figure-“

“Now hold on here, Davie, _no one_ is thinking of Flowers as my father figure, ok? Don’t listen to Tucker-“

“ _Your_ father figure?” Tucker’s smile was positively devilish.

“ _A_ father figure,” Church corrected.

“You said ‘ _my father figure,’_ ”

“I will shove your goddamn pipe up your ass, Tucker!”

“Do you remember everything now?” Doc said suddenly, with an academic glint in his eyes and his fingers drumming against his legs.

Church blinked at him before he shrugged noncommittally, which to Wash felt absurd. Perhaps it was false bravery or an understandable unwillingness to broach the subject further, but he doubted Church was actually so nonchalant about it.

“I remember that my dad’s an asshole and I have a fuckton of brothers... and a sister.” He said quickly as he poked into the fire. “But yeah, everything’s back by now.”

Doc opened his mouth to inquire further about it, but seemed to interpret the mage’s unwillingness as well, and shuffled awkwardly where he sat.

“So,” Grif said to break the pregnant silence that hung over them, much like the incessant darkness that engulfed them. “Anyone else want to share with the group?”

Tucker snorted. “Pass. People dig the _mysterious past_. Don’t ruin my game.”

Once again, the wineskin was entirely at fault, and Wash glared at it with all his might when the sentence “Were not you and Church involved for a time?” escaped his mouth.

Both Tucker and Church groaned in perfect unison, to the superb ensemble of snorts and laughter from the Reds.

“I only meant…” Wash let the sentence trail off with flushed cheeks and a cough. He had, admittedly, been quite surprised that Tucker -who never ceased his talk of ladies- had had past relations with a man. The matter was surely more nuanced than his wine-addled mind could grasp, and he was oddly curious to find out more. Thankfully, his inner voice with that sharp, accusatory tone of his father stopped him from leaning forward and asking more, probing questions.

He flushed slightly again, suddenly feeling terribly uncouth and awkward, and settled for staring at his hands.

It was _entirely_ not his business, and yet his eyes flicked back and forth between Church and Tucker -without him realizing it at first, and certainly without approving of it- as if to decrypt an entire previous romance through gestures and body language alone. Wash hated to admit that it felt _odd_ to have relations with a fellow Guild member, that was the only feeling he could label the unpleasant tug in his stomach, and he was ashamed of that. But it was not unheard of, as he distinctly remembered that York and Carolina were certainly more involved than both of them had cared to admit at the time. Not to mention how closed off and strange York had acted after the attack where Carolina was killed in action.

Wash could only blink and furrow his brow in frustration at his own mind’s completely inability to stay on a subject, and he tugged his cloak closer to him and tried to focus on the conversation happening around him.

Donu- _You will behave yourself, David_ his father’s voice told him as Franklin’s nickname had settled in his mind before his title. He found himself flinching slightly, as if expecting a sharp slap across his cheek, though it had been more than a decade his father had resorted to such punishments and corrections.

 _Franklin_ and Caboose were tossing weeds into the fire with mildly bored expressions, Grif had already fallen asleep with his head rested on a few crumbling blocks of stone, Sarge was pacing around the circle as if trying to stave off his sleepiness, Tucker was already in his own tent and the mages were preparing their mage circle. Well, Church and Simmons were, as Doc looked between the two as if standing in line for one of the circles.

“I suppose we are to wait here for the…” Wash trailed off, biting his lip in thought.

“Grand Marshal.” Simmons pointed out from inside his glowing, magic circle.

“Yes, thank you, Simmons. The Grand Marshal.” Wash yawned and rubbed his mouth. His fingers drummed on his thigh as he stared dully into the flames.

 _It feels like all we do is wait_.


	36. The Marshal and the attic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The coming three chapters are, by far, the BIGGEST reason it took me so long to continue, despite already being done with Volume I. They are the bane of my existence, and I apologize for any odd choppy feel it might give you guys, it has been redone A LOT. It might undergo some more changes, as I'm noooooot sure I've caught all my mistakes and rewrites.  
> Nevertheless, this one's a big one, with a lot of plot and a lot of lore, prepare your brains!  
> Stay safe!

** Northwestern point of Nochkit **

** The Temple of the Dragon Marshal Order **

“Good morning!”

Wash was violently brought back to reality from a fitful sleep in his tent as he heard the bright, bubbly voice of Caboose greet an unknown presence in their camp. He immediately emerged, blinked sharply as the sun hit him straight in the eyes; ready to face the young, bitter man who had led them to the grounds in the first place.

Instead he was met with a man in his thirties, brown hair and short beard, quite portly, greeting Caboose back with a neutral smile and a nod. He wore an outfit much similar to the young man from earlier, only bright red and also equipped with a staff of similar scale-like appearance.

He turned as Wash came almost sprinting out of his tent and put his hand out. “Ho there! I didn’t mean to startle you. I am here to offer you a more… pleasant setting as the Order meet and discuss what we should do.”

Wash blinked. “Pardon me, I just woke up. Care to specify? We only need to ask some questions, and then we shall be on our way.”

The man grimaced. “I am afraid we stand quite serious on ceremony here.” He added apologetically. “Our services have been closed for a week, due to the arcane explosion, and few missions and quests will sway us away from that.”

“We are on a _royal_ quest!” Wash added. He was getting quite tired at being disregarded so. “By the Delta himself. This is not a regular mission!”

“Still-“ The man shrugged his shoulders. “We will convene and decide whether we are open to answer your questions. Princes and peasants are equal in this place, and you are not the only one who has sought help from us. We will help as many as we can, in a proper orderly fashion; regardless of whose sigil is stamped on your quest. But I did not come here to argue-“ He waved with his hand. “-You are certainly tired of travel, and deserve rest, food and water while you wait. I will take you to our guest house, where you may reside and bathe.”

“Bathing?” Caboose exclaimed. “I would very much like to bathe!”

“Wonderful!” The man said with a nod. He moved back slightly and nodded towards a building that Wash hadn’t noticed in the dark.

By Potentian standards, it was quite a modest, square temple, with a practical size with beautifully decorated arches and a small tower jutting out from the northwest corner. Wash supposed he had gotten far too used to the Meteor Fortress and its surrounding architecture, with its extraordinarily opulent style and size.

But the building the man was pointing towards was slightly off to the east of the Keep, a smaller, circular building with tall, checkered windows and a tall, pointed roof.

“That there’s our dormitory. You’ll find some of our scholars there. I have instructed that we are having more guests, so you may take beds and baths. We’ll make sure to find you something to eat as you wait.” He bowed slightly and walked back towards the temple.

Wash bit back the urge to call the man back with an urgent tone, and his fingers drummed against the journal he kept in his breast pocket. It felt as if though the universe was beset on hindering their quest, and he could almost feel Connie travel further and further away from him.

Regardless of the theories, whether it was a deliberate choice of hers to leave the comfort of the Keep to pursue the, frankly, mad quest of breaking the Potentian Curse or something more sinister; he wanted to find her. And every delay felt like a rather large addition to the already decreasing chance of finding her.

He rolled his shoulders and turned to Caboose, who had turned to wake the others with happy exclaims of baths and bubbles.

The Guild moved camp eventually, with the promise of better residence, free from the cold, wet air that seemed to surround the grounds. Wash let his belongings fall with a heavy thud on one of the beds placed around the first room, following the circular structure of the building. A scholar had approached them with towels and soaps and they were, somewhat, unceremoniously shoved into a room in the center of the building.

Immediately, mist hit Wash’s face and he was struck with the realization that it had been an age and a half since he had had the luxury of a bath.

A pool with steaming hot water was inlaid in the floor in the middle of the room, dragon fountain heads continuously pouring water into it. Stone benches dotted the walls, some of them with more towels and buckets, with individual drains under every bench. Four foggy mirrors hung on the walls between more statues of dragons and tapestries with embroided flames.

Wash blinked. The outside rooms had been so plain that the sudden decorated luxury felt out of place, almost like stepping into another universe entirely.

“I got dibs on the pool!” Grif called, his shirt already half-way over his head. He yelped when Simmons looped his arms around his torso with a sharp,

“Grif, no! We need to wash first!”

“I can wash _in the pool_!” Grif protested. “And I don’t wanna share it with you guys, full offense!” He looked across the rest of the Guild with a distrusting look, as if the rest of them would jump into the pool immediately, dirty clothes and all.

Wash only shook his head and turned to one of the stone benches, filled a bucket with warm water and grabbed a smaller towel. He removed his shirt mechanically, trying to ignore the antics behind him as he wetted a towel and gently rubbed it across his arms and abdomen. A small, sharp pain made him flinch as the warm towel ran across his stomach and he looked down, only to see, essentially for the first time, the scar he had gotten in the marshes. It was five small puncture wounds turned into small scars, barely noticeable but apparently somewhat irritated. Perhaps it was an internal wound that had gotten infected?

He turned to search for Church, whom had taken a spot in front of a mirror to undress and wash. But his eyes were frozen on a spot in the mirror. He, too, was seeing his own scars from the marshes for the first time, and Wash was hit with an onslaught of sympathy. The mage had blanched somewhat and stared unblinkingly at the mess his abdomen had become for a few seconds, before he blinked and shook his head and rolled his shoulders with a small sigh.

Wash walked a few steps closer, his personal worries of his own potential infected wound gone. “Are you good?” He said quietly.

Church blinked and turned to him as if he had just noticed he was there. He reddened slightly and grabbed a wet towel and started scrubbing his arms. “I’m fine.” He said sharply. “I was just a bit surprised.”

Wash drummed his fingers against his arms. “I… if you need to talk… about the marshes. I’m sure it wasn’t an easy thing to endure.”

“It wasn’t.” Church said curtly. “But thank the fucking gods that I don’t actually remember anything about the whole…” He trailed off and looked at the scars again. He flexed his fingers and then shook his hands and then tucked them under his armpits.

Church’s wounds, now on closer inspection, looked much worse than Wash’s own. They were still healing well enough, but chunks of flesh had been ripped out, by Church’s own hands as Wash grimly remembered, and his whole lower abdomen was a map of crisscrossed scars and sharp indentation. And on the center of his chest was the scar from the injury made by the bandits on their way home from Ivory Tower.

Wash felt his hand come down and gently grasp Church’s shoulder, which surprised them both.

“I know I’ve said it a lot,” Wash said. “But thank you. I know we don’t necessarily see eye to eye-“

“I wouldn’t _mind_ you, Wash-” Church chimed in sharply. He didn’t move away from his hand though. “-If you would just drop the snobby attitude you pop into sometimes. It’s like you think you’re _way_ better than the rest of the Guild and are trying to change them; like they’re not good as they are. And that shit doesn’t fly with us. That’s it, that’s the whole _not seeing eye to eye_. If you’d realize not every Guild is on the same _standard_ as the Freelancers are, it’d be easier on all of us. Not everyone’s from a rich House, y’know.”

Wash was quite taken aback by the mage’s honesty, and he found himself unable to respond as Church finally moved away and turned to Caboose as the big man tried to sneak into the pool with his clothes on.

A splash of water brought him back to reality, and he reddened severely when he saw that most of the Reds and Tucker had already washed and were submerged, with little to cover themselves other than the water.

Grif had apparently jumped into the pool, and Tucker, having seen him jump, had scrambled to get out. He was now halfway submerged, resting his weight on his arms as he had heaved himself up. Wash’s eyes were weirdly glued to the waterdrops trickling down Tucker’s chest, a few of them collecting on the sharp _v_ of his abdomen leading down-

“Yo, Wash!” Tucker called, and Wash’s head snapped up so sharply he grimaced in pain.

His mouth felt oddly dry, and his mind foggy, so he only blinked at the rogue in acknowledgment.

“You’re gonna jump in or what?” Tucker continued after a few seconds of terrible awkwardness. Wash coughed to try to get rid of the odd, constricting feeling in his throat. He only raised the hand where he still held the warm towel and walked back to his bucket, staring at the bench as he mechanically cleaned his upper body.

For all the scholar’s talk of other people wishing to receive guidance from the Order, the place was quiet save for the Guild and the occasional worker popping their head in after a particularly loud conversation had caught their attention. Once again, Wash found himself grimacing apologetically for his comrades whenever someone else walked into the room. He could understand and see _some_ fairness in Church’s words -he had been brought up to behave a certain way- but it didn’t change the fact that sometimes the Guild was, even by civilian standards, _too_ rowdy.

Eventually, the Guild thought it appropriate to let themselves out of the pool, only to find that their clothes had been taken to get washed sometime earlier.

Grif seemed the happiest with the news, and submerged himself completely in the pool once more while the rest of the Guild seemed quite done with bathing. Wash cast a worried eye towards the pool after a while, as Grif had neither emerged nor seemed to breathe at all, judging from the lack of air bubbles. Simmons seemed to have the same thoughts, as the man popped a leg in the pool and nudged Grif.

He emerged quickly then, shaking his head like a dog and yawned.

Once dry and clothed, after another servant came back with their things, they emerged from the room to find the man with the staff that had spoken to them earlier. He was leaning against one of the windows, casually scribbling things into his book with a quill. He looked up and smiled at them.

“I hope our dormitory has been kind to you.” He said.

“It has, we thank you for your hospitality.” Wash said with a small bow. “I apologize for the state of ourselves and our clothes, I’m afraid it must’ve taken the servants quite some time to wring the dirt from them.”

“We do not expect travelers to come to us clothed in jewels and gold.” The man said with a wave of his hand. “Think nothing of it. Morgan!”

Wash bristled slightly as the young, rude man from the previous night emerged from behind the curve of the inner room, sneer and angry eyes at the ready.

“This Guild here sends their thanks for the service your team has provided. Do give them their regards, will you?”

The young man, Morgan, stood a tad bit straighter and nodded towards the other man, but he cast a glare at Wash as he left.

Wash’s brow furrowed. “May I inquire about something, sir…” He stopped there, realizing he had no idea who the other man was.

“I am Marshal, and you may certainly ask me.” Said the man with a small nod. “Both time and the council allow it.”

“Can I call you Santa?” Caboose cut in immediately. Wash bit his lip so hard he could taste blood.

The Marshal only blinked. “Pardon?”

“Mama told me about a man in a red suit giving things. You give things. You wear red. That makes you Santa.” Caboose gestured towards the towel he had been given on their way in to the bath. He held it almost ceremoniously, like it was of grandiose importance. Caboose nodded seriously towards the Marshal, who only politely smiled back.

“Certainly.” He said,

Wash stumbled slightly, and he turned to Simmons for confirmation. There had been talk of a _Grand Marshal_ , the supposed leader and Herald of the Order, but he had always assumed such a leader would not be walking around and conversing with guests as if he was just another scholar.

Simmons’s eyebrow had flown up after the revelation, but he didn’t bow or offer a new official greeting, so Wash followed his footsteps and continued talking,

“I thank you, Grand Marshal. It is just…” He thought about the way the young man had treated them as if they had been criminals. “We were… well, still are, worried that we might have done something wrong? So far, the servants who has spoken to us have done so with a certain… reluctance.”

Marshal nodded, thoughtfully. “I do have an answer for you, but you will not like it. I’m afraid that any obvious ties to the Potentian mainland is treated with a certain… wariness here.”

Church huffed at that. “What gave us away?”

“Your accents, for a start. Well, some of you have hints of hailing from other places,” He gave some a poignant look. “But I believe, if you’ll allow me this comment; that _you_ are very clearly from the Potentian mainland, and probably from a greater House.” He nodded towards Wash, whom couldn’t help but feel a sharp tug of indignation.

“Are only the Nochkitian people allowed here, then?” He asked. “It seems… selective.”

“ _Chauvinistic_ is the word you were too polite to say,” Marshal pointed out. “And, _no_ , anyone who seeks our council shall receive it. But I am certain you are aware of how it must look.”

He stopped there and looked between them. When no one looked particularly enlightened at his hidden meaning, he continued with a quiet voice, “The Dragon Order has been the country’s head of state for centuries. It included both humans and dragons alike. But, as I’m sure you know, when the Potentian Fireslayers conquered the nation and killed all dragons, our Order was left a mere shadow of its former self. Mainland Potentians serve as a bitter reminder, as unfair as it is, of our nation’s greatest loss.”

A pregnant silence fell over the room. Wash turned to Simmons, who grimaced slightly. The Nochkitian Conquest had happened over 500 years ago, to Wash it felt as if though skepticism and anger towards the mainland should have lessened somewhat. Though he knew it was unfair of him to think so, it was not his language, way of life and very culture that had been squandered by invaders.

“I thank you for this knowledge.” He bowed more deeply this time. “The… reaction seems more understandable, now.”

“I notice _you’re_ not trying to glare us half to death.” Church added. “Why?”

The Marshal blinked. “I believe in our Gods. One could never argue they do not love what they have created, their towers, their lands and their beings. The mainlands lost their Gods ages ago. Should ours have willed it, they would have struck down the Fireslayers with a swift hand, yet they let the godless and faithless win. I dare say it was for a reason. I cannot hate the Potentians, it leads to nothing. Hatred is an ugly thing, and it twists reason and kindness alike. Does that answer your question?”

Church shrugged. “Actually, yes.”

“Are we here to discuss history or some shit?” Tucker chimed in, for once the voice of reason. He whistled. “C’mon, we have a quest to finish!”

Marshal actually laughed. “How right you are, there. Apologies, we can get so easily lost in discussions. If you wish, we may go to my solar for your questions, if you are more privately inclined. But I have realized that you value your time as well. If you would like to ask me here, that will be fine.”

“Your solar would be for the best.” Wash said with a brisk nod. “We will follow you, Grand Marshal!”

“You have my full attention,” Marshal said once they had settled in his solar and he had made himself comfortable on a high chair. A small, albino parrot flew around the room and settled on Caboose’s shoulder with a squeak, much like the one Caboose himself admitted when it did so.

“What’s her name?” Caboose said eagerly as Wash opened his mouth to ask actual questions of relevance.

“She does not have one, yet.” Marshal said kindly. “I have only called her _little one_ , and she has not yet settled with a name. You may try one, if you wish-“

“Apples!” Caboose exclaimed happily, to the amused snort of Church and Tucker.

“ _Apples!”_ the bird repeated, and Marshal waved with his arm.

“And so it is. Now, I will not pretend to think that was your only question, entertaining as it is to see that _Apples_ have made new friends.”

Wash flushed slightly at that, and found himself picking at the hem of his travel cloak for a second before he released it and sat straighter. “Sir, I am certain you have heard who has issued our quest. His Royal Highness Prince Delta has set us on a journey of utmost importance. We are searching for the Grand Seer, and so far our quest has led us here. May we ask if you know anything about her? Has she been here?”

Marshal thought for a moment. He threaded his fingers together across his lap, chewing on his lip. “That’s who she was, of course. Grand Seer Constantina of House…” He turned to Wash. “Connecticut of…”

“Droplands, with the capitol of Landfall.” Wash corrected quickly as he leaned forward. “She was here?”

“Indeed.” Marshal said. “Interesting name for a region, by the by. But yes, she has been here. And left quite quickly, after triggering whatever it was that left an arcane explosion in its wake.”

At this, Church appeared out of thin air next to Wash as the latter jumped in surprise. “The trigger, then? What did she do? What does it look like?”

“Church!” Wash argued. “We are here to find Connie, not to go on an insane quest to break the curse.”

“Speak for yourself, Washington.” Said the healer coolly. “Since CT is on this _insane quest_ herself, don’t you think it’s relevant for us too?”

“Tucker!” Grif whined, the name drawn out. “The idiots are fighting again!”

Tucker burst out laughing, either at his comment or the way both Wash and Church turned back to them with incredulous looks. Marshal laughed quietly as well, attempting to hide it in his large, red sleeve.

“I might be able to aid you somewhat in that,” Marshal tried to hide a small smile. “She has indeed been here, and insisted on investigating our tower. More specifically, the attic room there.”

“And you just let her?”

“Certainly. It is only storage, though the view is quite nice, I suppose. She spent the good of two days there, occasionally coming down to inquire about ink and quills. Then, she came down to me one evening and explained that she was going to _try_ something, and that we should prepare.”

“Let me guess, arcane explosion?” Tucker added.

Marshal nodded. “While we and our people here were not badly hit, I cannot speak for the rest of the nation-”

“We can.” Sarge cut in sharply. His arms were crossed, the clasps of his leather contraption glinting in the candlelight. Marshal grimaced slightly and nodded.

“In any case,” He continued, somewhat subdued. “She left quite soon after the explosion, after ensuring that none of our people had been hurt. I’m afraid she didn’t say much, but we can take you to the attic room if you wish.”

“We do.” Wash said immediately as he stood up. “After you, Grand Marshal!”

The attic room of the tower was, indeed, marvelously mundane. For a person who prided himself in being quite neat and clean, it hurt Wash’s soul just a little bit to see the upturned chairs and fallen barrels thrown pell-mell across the floor.

Marshal only walked past it and opened a window to let in some air.

“We have not been here since the explosion.” He said. “Not that my scholars weren’t terribly interested, but I advised them to stay away, just in case.”

“Good man.” Sarge said gruffly.

He and Franklin were the only ones still standing in the winding staircase instead of meandering around the room. His gruff voice had turned even more so at the mention of the arcane explosion, and it certainly didn’t help that he was there at the supposed sight of one.

The room itself didn’t seem to be in too much chaos, especially for a place that supposedly could cause so much destruction in a harbor city on the other side of the island. Hells, even the window was intact, Wash noticed with grim humor.

“Are you certain this is where she was when it happened?”

Marshal nodded and leaned against the wall. “Certainly. She rarely moved from this space the two days she was here.”

“There has to be _something_!” Church said to thin air, with a desperate tone to his voice that seemed so out of place that Wash turned to him with a furrowed brow. The mage ignored him and continued to stare at the walls, tracing them with his fingers. “I don’t get it. How the hell are we supposed to figure out how a fucking trigger looks like otherwise?”

“Church.” Tucker said after he had shared a confused look with Wash. “What are you even doing?”

“I’m-“ His voice came out sharp and cracked and he cleared his throat before he continued, much more subdued, “I’m just trying to figure out what a trigger looks like. Wouldn’t be fun to stumble on one accidentally, y’know.”

“Wait-“ Grif turned to Simmons, who had moved to the window to sneeze as a particularly nasty dust cloud had erupted in his face a few seconds earlier. “We’re not gonna trigger another one _here_ , right?”

Simmons shook his head. “I don’t think so, no. _If_ we’re understanding the curse correctly, it’s a geographical one. The trigger marks a point in the figure, like the corner of a triangle. They wouldn’t place another trigger here if they’re trying to cover the whole Commonwealth, it’d be useless. And the one that _was_ here is already broken. No danger… I think.”

Wash took a deep breath, but couldn’t help to move around more warily, as if he would hear a click or walk into the string of a trap as he wandered around the room.

“Admiral Strawberry Cake!” Caboose called suddenly, loud enough to make everyone jump and turn around to ready themselves for battle. Caboose had his hands cupped over something as he bounced away to Franklin. “I found something pretty for you!”

Franklin laughed gently and took a deep breath. “Bless you, Caboose, but you scared me half to death!”

“Oh.” Caboose said and shrunk somewhat. He looked so guilty that whatever anger Wash had gathered at the sudden, booming voice of the giant evaporated.

“I found you something.” Caboose repeated in a stage whisper. “It is yours now, and it is very pretty. It reminds me of you.”

“Mikael, you are an absolute delight!” Franklin smiled and reached up to kiss Caboose on the cheek. “What did you find?”

Wash couldn’t see it, due to Caboose bouncing around happily as he revealed the gift, but his brow furrowed and he moved immediately as Franklin called his name somewhat urgently.

A small, triangular prism sat in Franklin’s hands. He studied it suspiciously but couldn’t properly recall where he had seen one until Franklin whispered, “CT’s journal, right?”

Wash’s heart began to beat rapidly as he fished out the journal and flipped to get to the appropriate page. They had seen it once, together, in Connie’s old room in Ivory Tower where she had left the journal.

“ _Luna Rivus_.” Wash read out quietly. He touched the page where Connie had, poorly, drawn the shape and scribbled some words next to it. “The signaling prism.”

“That means _something_ , right?” Franklin whispered back. “She wouldn’t write about it otherwise, right?”

“Yo, Caboose, move!” Tucker said suddenly, from behind the protective shield of the giant man. Wash hadn’t even noticed that Caboose had moved to shield Franklin and him from view, so that they could converse in peace. But now a small, at least next to Caboose’s, hand poked at the biceps of the large man.

“Care to include the rest of us?” Tucker said with a raised eyebrow. He yelped as Caboose moved his arm up and Franklin yanked him into the circle with the rest of them.

“Same thing, right? Look at these two?” Franklin moved the journal so that the image of the Luna Rivus and the crystal were next to each other.

“Oh.” Tucker said. “Yeah, it’s a-“

The word came out in a language Wash couldn’t even begin to decipher, and he only blinked at Tucker as the smaller man rolled his eyes.

“It’s Snowtongue, you guys wouldn’t know it.”

“That sounds _beautiful_ , Tucker!” Franklin said with astonished glee. “I’ve never heard a language like that. Say it again!”

Tucker repeated it quietly, somewhat embarrassed.

“You recognize it?” Wash asked. “From where?”

“We use these back home. It’s for travel. Well, not _really_ for travel, but they have these… light beams if you angle them right. And if that beams angles correctly at _another_ prism, it glows up as well. You can get a beam that stretches like… half a mountain pass if you do it right.”

He seemed somewhat embarrassed after he had said so, as both Wash and Franklin stared at him. Wash had never heard much at all about Tucker’s culture; besides what little information he had gathered after the Crowclimber massacre, and it seemed very new and very different from what he had ever known.

“…Why do you need to light up a whole mountain pass?” Franklin asked.

“We don’t, but we can. It’s for flying.”

“It’s for _what_?” Wash and Franklin said simultaneously. Tucker flushed even further and tried to move away from them.

“Never mind. Just angle one of these fuckers around, we’ll probably catch a sun beam from the window. You’ll see what I mean.”

He moved away before Wash could inquire further. Wash stood there, trying to figure out what on earth Tucker had meant. Flying? There was no branch of magic that involved levitation, or else it would’ve surely been implemented globally. Unless the Crowclimbers had secret dragons tucked away in their mountains, there was _nothing_ Wash could think of that could give a man the ability to fly.

He stood there, terribly puzzled, so puzzled that he didn’t notice or react when Caboose grabbed the Luna Rivus and began to move it around the room, cooing at the light going “ _Here, light, come here. I wish to see light beam!”_ while the rest of the Guild looked at him like he had gone insane.

“Caboose, what the hell-“ Church began, before he yelped as the light caught the signaling prism correctly and a sharp beam of light shot out from it. It hit the wall but didn’t bounce anywhere, and disappeared as soon as Caboose moved just a little bit,

Caboose jumped in excitement. “Did you see that? Church, did you see that?!”

“Huh.” Marshal said. “Interesting. I don’t suppose there are more of those around in this room?”

The whole Guild scrambled to look for similar crystals somewhere in the room. Franklin found the next one with an excited squeal, embedded in the wall. Doc, who had been delegated to ‘Luna Rivus’ holder since Caboose could not stop bouncing in exhilaration every time he managed to angle it right and a beam shot out from it, managed to guide the light to it and it bounced to another wall.

It took them the better part of the evening, after Tucker figured out that the prisms embedded in wall could be twisted around to angle them further, before the finally found a system that set all the prisms in the room -all twelve of them- to glow and bounce of the light. Only for the last beam of light to hit the floor at the center of the room.

“Nobody move, I need to document this.” Simmons said.

Grif groaned. “Really, dude?”

Simmons glared at him as he procured a journal of his own from a sewn-in-pocket in his travel cloak. He scribbled some details as he looked around the shape the beams created.

“20 sides.” Church said flatly as Simmons had brought up a finger to count a few sides created by the lines. Simmons nodded and continued to scribble. “A regular icosahedron, then. Interesting.”

“ _How_ and _why_ do you know that shape by name? You are such a nerd.” Grif said with a sigh.

He flushed and looked ready to fling his quill at the other man. “Will you stop talking, I’m trying to concentrate?”

“Why is the shape important?” Wash cut in as he looked between the three men.

Church shrugged. “We don’t know. But we don’t know _anything_ about cursework, so it’s worth writing down.”

“See, Church agrees with me.” Simmons glared at Grif, who only huffed.

“Yeah, that’s not usually a _good thing_?”

Grif yelped as Church tossed a small, wooden box at him. He yelped and moved away, and the resulting dust cloud caused Simmons to, once more move to the window to sneeze.

Wash tried his best to ignore the ruckus, even though Marshal’s only reaction was to glance neutrally at the spectacle, and moved down to inspect the center of the room further. He scratched slightly at the spot where the last beam had hit, trying to uncover another prism. Then he was almost flung backwards at the very sharp smell hit him.

It wasn’t bad, but it smelled somewhat familiarly and it made the hair on his arms rise. He snorted discreetly and tried to rub the smell off as the three mages almost came to the spot to smell it, oddly enough.

“Magic?” Doc said.

“Magic.” Simmons and Church said simultaneously. Church snorted. “ _Really_ strong magic, fucking hell. Don’t sneeze, Simmons.”

“I’m not gonna sneeze!” Simmons said indignantly.

“No, seriously, don’t sneeze.” Church repeated, worryingly serious and wary.

“I’m not gonna-“ Simmons’s face scrunched up. “Oh, hell, you jinxed it!”

Wash could almost feel the magic then. It was a weird pull that made him almost stumble and his stomach lurch as if he was falling. The odd smell basically _pulled_ itself from his nostrils and for a second Wash couldn’t breathe, as if the oxygen in the air was completely gone.

A great tongue of flame emerged, seemingly from Simmons’s nose, when he sneezed and for a split second, the tongue seemed to expand as if it would set the entire room aflame. Then Church snapped his fingers and the room turned icy cold as a small globe of snow exploded in the room.

Wash stood there in shock as he shook the snow off of him. In the middle of the room sat a seemingly exhausted Church taking deep breaths as Simmons covered his face with his hands, terribly embarrassed.

“Well,” Doc tried weakly. “At least we found the trigger.”


	37. ‘This is why we can’t have anything nice’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the second of the villainized trio of chapters 36-38. I still don't like them. They have been edited, re-formatted and chopped up to death. But sometimes, it's better to just let things go. There's only so much I can re-do before it starts to get ridiculous.
> 
> But we will soon enter the very dramatic climax of Volume I, hang tight!
> 
> Stay safe!

** Northwestern point of Nochkit **

** The Temple of the Dragon Marshal Order **

“What the hell was that?!” Tucker screeched as he shook his head free of the sudden snow. A gentle cover of it laid like a blanket over everything in the room.

“Sorry!” Simmons said from behind his hands. “It was _a lot_ of magic.”

“Fucking pyromancers.” Church groaned as he almost collapsed. He settled for leaning his head against the floor, almost like a praying stance. He muttered something beneath his breath before asking, “Is everyone ok?”

“I am very much _not_ ok!” Wash almost screamed. He had placed himself as much as he could in front of the Marshal in a somewhat successful attempt of protection. “Explain yourselves!”

Church gestured at Simmons from his position of lying face-down in the snow, blissfully aware of the murderous look in Wash’s eyes. “Ask him!”

“I-“ Simmons glanced around and grimaced as everyone turned to stare at him. “Uh, so… whatever was in this spot before-“ He pointed at the spot the beam had hit the center of the floor. The one Wash had scratched slightly. “-Released a lot of magic. Like a lot!”

“Like _arcane explosion_ lot?” Tucker said, leaning back as he tried to get away from the mage.

Wash’s breath hitched. They had never seen an arcane explosion, and so had no idea the scope of the terrible shock wave that came after it. Did they just release one that could rival the one that had ravaged Backwash? _Like the one Connie had set loose? Did she know the damage they would cause?_ “Was that-?”

“No, no!” Simmons shook his head vehemently, and Wash couldn’t help the explosive sigh that left his lips. The mage continued, “No, it’s just… I guess it was a trace of magic, like just a small bit of arcane energy left from the explosion. It just triggered my magic, a little bit. Pyromancy is a bit volatile like that.”

“No shit.” Church muttered from his snowy bed. He sat up with, if the groans and slow movements was a sign, an _enormous_ amount of effort. He took a deep breath before opening his eyes, and Wash could notice a small trace of a cobalt sheen in his irises. A magic after-effect no doubt.

“So what, you _sneezed_ and you were gonna set the whole temple aflame?” Tucker continued, almost a step down the stairs by now. He had, somehow, managed to shimmy further and further away, even getting past Wash and the Marshal.

“No!” Simmons shrieked and he gestured wildly. “No, not the whole temple! Just… maybe this room. Maybe, I’m not sure. Guys, it was _a lot of magic here ok?!_ ”

“Wash!”

Wash turned to Tucker with a confused look, questioning the accusatory tone in the rogue’s voice.

“If we ever find one of these trigger-places, don’t _fucking scratch at the center_ , ok?!”

He bristled. “How on earth is this my fault, exactly?”

“Guys, for fuck’s sake!” Church said as he rubbed at his neck with a wince. “It’s not about who _started_ it, it’s about who _finished_ it. Which was me, I’m the hero. Worship me!”

“ _Really_?” Simmons said.

“Hey, if I hadn’t done that fantastic snowstorm maneuver, we’d all be fucking ash right now. Some appreciation is in order!”

“If I may-“ Marshal said. The whole room turned quiet. “I believe you have, at the very least, found a way to locate these… triggers. Needless to say, this colorful display will bring some of my scholars. You would do best to look as… _complementary_ as possible.”

Wash came forward. “I’m terribly sorry, Grand Marshal, we did not know what would happen.”

“I am certain you didn’t.” Marshal said ruefully. “But my scholars are already suspicious of you, and this little spectacle will certainly bring most of them here, ready for a battle.”

They scrambled into action then, with Caboose hoisting Church up after the mage had stumbled slightly out of exhaustion. Wash backed away from Marshal just in time for the echoing sounds of dozens of feet coming up the stairs to bounce around them in the attic.

Wash raised his hands in defeat as the door swung open, hard enough to almost swing off the hinges entirely, and a couple of scholars poured out into the room; Morgan in the front.

 _Wonderful,_ Wash thought. _He seemed so fond of us_.

The scholars placed themselves six men abreast, all armed with spears and cold glares. A couple of them seemed to occupy the stairs as well, a few faces mumbling among themselves.

“Grand Marshal!” Morgan called, his voice loud and booming. He held a spear in his hand and fixed the Guild with a sneer, the threat dimmed somewhat as Marshal’s albino bird perched itself casually on the spear with a happy chirp.

“Hi Apples!” Caboose tried, in his own version of quiet, which was to say; not quiet at all. He dared a small wave at the bird, who chirped once more.

Morgan gave the bird a cold stare, as if contemplating wrenching it off his spear.

“I am unharmed, as I’m sure you can see.” Marshal pointed out with a neutral tone. Apples flew off the spear and settled himself comfortably on his shoulder. “Now lower your spears, all of you.”

“We heard the sound of a blast!” Morgan pressed on, lowering his spear after an incessant look from his leader. “What scheme have the mainland _dogs_ tried?!”

Wash bristled and was forced to bite his lip to not sneer in indignation. It didn’t help that Church, despite looking significantly weakened, had enough lack of sense to muster a sharp,

“Ey!”

“Not another word from you, I swear to the gods!” Morgan practically snarled. “Had we known what you would be up to- We let you upon our sacred grounds, despite you mainlanders never giving a damn about us or our customs and you-“

“If I can interject here to deescalate-“ Marshal pointed out. He gestured towards the Guild. “These young men will leave us now. Unharmed, so mind where you point your spears. It was an accident, one they have apologized for, _profusely_. We are not so eager for bloodshed, nor as foolish as to attack a Guild, regardless of our numbers. I will beg of you to reconsider jumping to your spears next time. One company here are skilled in the arts of battle, and it is not us.”

Morgan seemed tempted to try to attack them regardless, and his shoulders were still tensed as he re-affixed the grip on his spear.

 _Don’t do anything stupid_. Wash was quite content in having precisely zero talent for the arcane, but in that moment he hoped he could project the sentence throughout the Guild.

And then Morgan flexed his fingers, threw an almost contemptuous look Marshal’s way before he spat on the floor and turned to the other scholars with a sharp,

“Move out. If the _Grand Marshal_ wishes for us to bend to the wills of mainlanders, then so be it.”

Wash felt a sharp tug of indignation on behalf of the Marshal, but also of guilt. It was impossible to decipher the relationship between the leader and his scholars, but their presence there had surely not aided it.

Marshal didn’t say anything, only gestured at the door as the Guild shuffled out, quiet and awkward.

They were shown their belongings once more, and were allowed to prepare themselves for the journey away from their land under scrutinizing, cold eyes of the scholars. Morgan and Marshal were nowhere to be seen, which left a sour taste in Wash’s mouth.

They only progress they hade made, at the cost of further straining an already weak relationship in the Order, was a possible idea of how the triggers would look like. But it was something that Connie already knew, and nothing that told them of _how_ to get to her. The price for that information, only useful for those who wished to further study the curse, had not been worth it.

He was struck with the realization, as they exited the tower and shown the empty vastness of rolling hills and sharp cliffs down south; that they had no idea where to go now. They had no new clues as to Connie’s whereabouts. He almost turned around then and was only stopped by Tucker’s sharp ‘ _keep walking, dumbass’_.

The only thing that somewhat lessened Wash’s terrible mood, was seeing Lopez take off across the fields with a burst of frolicking energy. They had not been particularly happy, trapped in the tower. He and Sheila would swoop across the grass, snapping at each other playfully before sprinting back and forth. Lopez would circle Sarge with an impatient bark, protesting their sluggish pace, and only receive the occasional pat from whichever Guild member who dared to try to pet the wolfhound.

They walked down a winding path, and no one said a word until the tall towers of the Dragon Order disappeared behind a hill.

“Right,” Grif sighed as he stopped, rolling his shoulders with audible cracks. “Where the hell do we go now?”

Simmons’s frustrated sigh, as everyone turned to look at their silently appointed guide, seemed to echo across the vast emptiness. He, in turn, turned to Doc with a somewhat hopeless look.

“I don’t know.” He admitted as Doc shrugged.

“Best we get some space between us and the Order. We still have some hours of light.” Wash supplied. It was not much, but the collapsing on the spot in lieu of nothing to go after wouldn’t help. If Connie was no longer in Nochkit, their best bet would be to go back to Backwash. And if she _was_ in Nochkit still… they had no idea where on the island she could be.

“So, our plan right now is to walk until it gets dark?”

Wash shared his thoughts about Backwash, which were met with mutters and shrugs, but in the end, compliance.

And so, they walked. And walked. Occasional spouts of conversation would emerge, but the steep hills made for difficult climbs and the desire to fill the awkward silence caved in under the heavy breaths of physical strain. Wash could feel sharp edges of his luggage -a pot, a knife, whatever it was- prod at his back. It became an irritating, dull pain that didn’t disappear for the length of their journey.

They reached a patch of pinewoods eventually, just as the seemingly ever-present mist gave way to an actual light drizzle of rain. They took cover under the sparse branches of a large, twisted tree and began the work of setting up their tents and tightened a large swaddle of sail cloth over them.

Luckily, with a pyromancer in their midst, keeping a fire was the least of their issues. The sore muscles on their backs and arms from carrying their belongings were soon a relatively dull memory as they gathered around it, staring into the crackling flames.

The silence was tense. They all seemed to wait on someone else to speak first, to bring the back to the dull reality that they had _no_ idea on what to do next. Wash shuffled where he sat, and opened his mouth to talk, but Church jumped in first,

“Right,” He said, clearing his throat with a frustrated sigh. “I don’t suppose we still have one of those crystals?”

Tucker fished one out of his pockets and tossed it to the mage without his eyes leaving the fire.

“Of _all_ things-“ Wash started, before he rubbed his mouth with his hand. “Church, we are on a quest to find Connie. Our energy, our minds, shouldn’t stray way from that.”

“Will you _shut up_ , man?” Church groaned. “I’m gonna give a shit about the curse with or without you bitching about it, so just give it up. But _besides that_ , you do realize that we didn’t exactly walk out of there with CT telling us where to go next, right? So, maybe, just fucking maybe, we should try to think about the curse as well. She crossed the whole fucking place trying to break it-“

“Five astari that the sound of hell is just the sound of Wash and Church bickering.” Grif interrupted. He was leaning against the tree trunk with his arm covering his eyes as if attempting to sleep. “Seriously, _how_ do you have the energy to fight all the time?”

“I’m pretty sure Church feeds off negative energy, man.” Tucker replied with a small grin. He stretched with a long sigh. “So, we have a light prism, awesome. Next idea?”

Church clicked his tongue. “Doc, you got a map?”

They gathered themselves around a map of the commonwealth, guided only by the dull light of the fire as the sun finally died on them.

“Now, if I were a Grand Seer-“ Franklin mused, which made Wash snort despite of the pressed situation. “-where would I be hiding?”

“So, no visions?” Simmons looked up to the Seer, but Franklin only shook his head with a grimace.

“Connie’s the best Seer in the country. If she wanted to send me a vision, I’m sure she would, but-“ He shrugged. “-Here we are.”

“Here we are.” Wash concurred with a sigh. He stared at the spot Doc had marked as their approximate location, near the northernmost point of the entire Commonwealth. If he stared long enough, perhaps it could magically point towards where Connie was. What was the point of sending them off with clues and wishes about _‘find me’_ if she suddenly vanished without any trace? Where could they search for her now?

He brought forth the journal, spurred on by the very last of Connie’s clues. He had coveted the journal almost jealously, as if the Guild’s hands would somehow ruin it. It had been a suspicion at first, one he could not truly shake off, but he bit his tongue and only grimaced as Franklin read through the pages in search of hidden meanings.

She had written down information about the light prism they had found aplenty in the attic room. But besides knowing that it was relevant when looking for the location of a trigger, it did little to help. Even with that information, it would be nearly impossible for _one_ small group of people to locate a trigger based on that description alone.

Wash tried to bite down the hundredth sigh that threatened to escape his lips. He opened his mouth to sort out their sleeping schedule, when the gloved hand of Sarge snatched the map from underneath them.

“Sarge!” Doc cried. “Be careful, that is my favorite map!”

Sarge only twisted and turned it, rough, dirty gloves marking down the edges with filth. He didn’t seem particularly bothered. The Guild watched him with puzzled looks, all of them too surprised to ask questions.

Then Sarge smacked down the map on the ground, splashing dirt everywhere, with a triumphant laugh.

“And there we have it, men. You can’t fool my eyes!”

“What?” Wash said as he discreetly rubbed dirt off of his face.

Sarge sat back on his haunches with his hands on his hips, a superior grin on his face. “Honored Red men, despicable Blues, Grif-“

“Thanks, Sarge!”

“-Consider yourself outsmarted! I have single-handedly deduced where our little vision-woman is hiding.”

Wash blinked. “Do tell?”

Sarge tapped the northwestern point of Nochkit, where they had just been. A small map marker even indicated the spot as ‘ _The Dragon Marshal Order’_. “See, if _I_ was a curse that put everyone in the area under a spell, I would put one of the corners at the very edge of the Commonwealth’s grip. It makes zero sense, men, to place a trigger in _one_ corner in the west northernmost part of the map, and then place the next one somewhere else than the very east northernmost part of the map. Gentlemen, if the vision woman had any braincells in that skull of hers, where else would she go but-“

“Oh, the _isles_!” Franklin exclaimed as he slapped himself on the forehead. “Duh. We already figured that out on the ship. That makes perfect sense.”

“’Course it does, Francine! Now don’t take away this victory from us, this is a Red victory and a Red accomplishment.”

“I was hoping for more conclusive evidence that she was actually heading there.” Wash supplied as he bit back a sigh. “It is quite the distance.”

Silence hit as they all, collectively, took in the distance between where they were at on the map and where they would most likely head towards.

“Fuck, we’re not gonna be home until next year, are we?” Tucker groaned. “It’s gonna take fucking _months_ just to get to the Isles.”

“Might be longer than that.” Simmons grimaced. He cleared his throat as they all turned to him. “I heard it from Grif… few ships dare to take the northern route, in fear of the sirens. And the sea monsters. And the maelstroms. And-“

“Great. Fantastic. I hate this quest.”

Wash was temporarily inclined to agree with Tucker on that statement.

“Captain Ash and the _Manu Wai_ takes that route.” He pointed out. “We can, at the very least, inquire about their next destination when we get back to Backwash.”

It felt akin to begging, as Captain Ash had been generous enough to let them stay on her ship for the route between Tempest and Backwash. It had cost them a feasible sum, certainly, but he had still considered it a personal favor as a friend of his family. To further beg passage seemed… less than honorable. Especially considering that their funds were dwindling.

Still, it had to be done. _For Connie_.

“So… we’re headed towards the islands, huh?” Tucker’s voice was barely audible as he spoke with his hands covering his face with a constant stream of frustrated noises.

“I think Dr. Grey will have killed all of my plants by the time I’m back.” Doc said meekly.

“And our Guild House will probably be rented out to… y’know, Guilds who were smart enough to _stay in the country_.”

“We received a quest from a _Prince_ , might I add.” Wash protested. “Surely, it lifts Captain Flower’s Guild to a higher status. Let us remember that this… despite our feelings on it at the moment-“ He couldn’t hide the grimace. “-this _is_ an honor.”

He could’ve sworn the crickets had waited to chirp until that _exact_ moment. He let himself do the childish thing and glare at the empty darkness where the sound echoed.

“Some honor.” Church said, but before Wash could muster the energy to snap back, the mage tossed a pebble at Grif. The rogue had, somehow, managed to fall asleep during the few minutes the remaining Guild had conspired and conferred.

“Yo, Grif.” Church called, utterly unperturbed as Grif woke up with a start as the pebble hit him square in the stomach. “You’re from the isles, right?”

Grif blinked drowsily. He turned to Simmons before turning back to him. “Why?”

“You’re gonna be our new guide, congrats. That’s where we’re headed next.”

Grif blinked again, this time spurred into a less languid state as he almost shot up straight at the mention of the isles. He turned to Simmons again, who only grimaced in response.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, right?”

****

** The Northwestern point of Nochkit **

** A few miles away from the Dragon Marshal Order **

“Church.” Tucker said, approaching the mage from his tent.

The mage jumped and yelped. He turned to Tucker with a glare before he turned back to the campfire, stoking it slightly with a stick. “What is it with you and Grif and just _appearing_ out of nowhere?”

“It’s a rogue thing,” Tucker shrugged before he seated himself on the other side of the fire.

It was a bit early for his shift, truly, but Tucker found himself twisting and turning in his tent. He couldn’t block out all the noises, anything from a rat scuffling about in the tall grass to the sound of the campfire crackling made itself painfully aware in his head and made it utterly impossible for him to fall asleep. He knew he had the shift after Church, and after counting the minutes for a painfully long time, he had privately declared it another one of those sleepless nights and stalked out of his tent.

He sat there, looking at the yawning mage with that tell-tale tingling sense in the back of his head. He couldn’t figure out what it was, but something was wrong. There was something small, minute in Church’s mannerism that was not within his usual range of behavior.

“What?” Church said after a while.

Tucker tried his most nonchalant shrug, still trying to figure out what was different about his mannerisms. “Just checking in. You alright, man?”

Church raised his eyebrow, still suspiciously. Very Church-like, nothing wrong there. “What are you up to, Tucker? I’m fine.”

“It’s just…” Tucker found himself focusing on the other man’s hand. There was a new, small twitch of his hands that the mage didn’t possess before. It wasn’t like Simmons, who did it when he was nervous. _His_ fidgets were mostly centered around him rubbing his hands together, Church’s new thing was not. He seemed to stretch his fingers out on occasion, tapping his nails against his palms all weirdly. _Ok, then_. “I heard you talking with Wash, in the baths.”

“And?” Church said. So far, his tone wasn’t out of the ordinary Church-range.

“About the night in the swamps.” Tucker said, slowly.

 _There it is_. Church’s shoulders hunched up carefully before he seemingly forced them down again. His hands twitched, and he pressed his fingers against his palms before tucking them beneath his armpits, as if cold.

“I’m fine.” He lied.

Tucker just raised an eyebrow. “You can’t lie to me, man. It’s another _rogue thing_.”

Church’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t protest. He looked off into the night, biting his lip. His shoulders had gradually hunched up again, but now that he had been caught doing it, he didn’t seem to try to hide it.

Tucker waited, tapping his fingers against his knees. When Church continued to stare into the night like he could glare the inevitable, uncomfortable discussion away, Tucker just groaned.

“Fuck’s sake man, if you don’t want to talk, _ok_ , but you don’t need to pretend that you’re fine. It was… really fucking scary. You can say that you’re not fine.”

“I’m-“ Church cut himself off and just shook his head. He shuffled around and looked at his hands for a moment, flexing them, clearly mulling something over.

And that’s when Tucker noticed it. At first glance, he would’ve assumed that it was just two dead fingernails. He had had a few himself, inevitable when his entire professional career is based around sneaking around on your feet, so he didn’t think much of it at first. _But_ , two of Church’s fingernails were pitch-black and somewhat oddly shaped. Not unlike…

Tucker grimaced as the image of the possessed mage scratching Caboose’s arms flashed before his eyes. Not dark, dead nails, but _claws_. Guess O’Malley couldn’t heal everything after the possession.

Church must’ve caught him looking, since he shoved his hand back underneath his armpit and shuffled around some more.

“Too late, already saw.” Tucker said, trying at his usual humor. It didn’t work. “Do you… remember… anything?”

Church bit his lip, staring into the fire. “Not at first. It was kinda… fuzzy. Can’t complain, y’know, you guys were freaked out enough as it was. It’s _so great_ to have Doc just flinch and skitter away from me every time I cough.”

“It’s Doc, man.” Tucker argued, quietly.

”I know. But…” Church let his fingers run through his hair, grasping at a lock and twisting it around a finger. He let out a small sigh in an attempt to hide a shiver that ran through him. “I hadn’t… I couldn’t _see_ the scars, so it was kinda out of sight out of mind.”

“And then the baths?”

“And then the fucking baths.” Church agreed with a humorless laugh. “Fuck, my whole fucking stomach’s a _mess_. I just stared at first, but… I kinda remembered. I _think_ I do at least. My stomach’s hurting like a bitch, Caboose’s arms bleeding like a wild animal had ripped them to shreds…”

He looked up at Tucker, uncharacteristically quiet. “I did that, right?”

Tucker grimaced, but he couldn’t lie to him. He shrugged. “Yeah, kinda.”

“Thought so. I don’t know if it’s a nightmare or… I remembering not being able to breathe with all of that tar-bullshit coming out of my mouth. I couldn’t drink water, it just made everything worse. And-” He flexed his hand again, and Tucker scrunched his nose up. His new fidgeting made a whole lot more sense, and Tucker felt a pang of sympathy. “I remember my hands hurting, like they were _split open_. I guess… guess they kinda were, considering _these things_.”

He looked at his hand again, tapping his two, dark nails against his palm. Then he rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat. “I _feel_ fine, by the way. Not gonna spew tar or anything. But… It’s just… it’s weird.”

“Yeah, well, don’t scratch my eyes out, is all I’m saying.” Tucker tried again, and smiled a little bit when Church snorted at him, a modicum of his usual temper restored.

“Noted. So, you were listening in on me and Wash?”

 _Look at you, changing the subject_. Tucker shrugged. “Hard not to, honestly. Grif’s the same. It’s-“

“A rogue thing, yeah, I know.” Church rolled his eyes. “I’ll have you know that I didn’t give him shit for being prissy this time.”

“I am overwhelmed by pride, man.” Tucker snorted back. It tugged at him uncomfortably so, when the mention of Wash came up again, and Tucker couldn’t help but grimace. He hated that, whatever it was. It made things awkward and weird, and he couldn’t really help but overthink things.

As he shuffled, he noticed a glint of something in Church’s eyes. The mage raised his eyebrows.

“What?” Tucker said. It came out with about 10% of the nonchalance he was hoping to project.

“Nothing.” Church said, lying again, the word drawn out.

“No, seriously, what?” Tucker’s heartbeat increased, without any reason for it, and he felt the blood rush to his face. No way in hell Church had figured something out already. He would fling himself off of a cliff if so. No way.

But Church just shrugged with a small grin. “Nothing. Nothing. It’s your shift, by the way.”

“Right.” Tucker said, way too high. “Right, yes. Sure. Ok, man. I got this.”


	38. Niner likes her speaking trumpet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiiiii, long time no seen!  
> Happy holidays and so forth. I have had way too much to do, with travels, christmas, exam crunch and rewrites galore.  
> But this is the last of the dreaded re-write trio, and so it should be back to the regular schedule next monday!
> 
> There is not much I can do about the formatting, unfortunately. I'm on my laptop, without a decent program OR spelling, so do let me know if you see some grammatical mistakes. I'll redo this chapter next monday, when I'm back with my regular computer.
> 
> Stay safe!

**The Northwestern point of Nochkit**   
**A few miles away from the Dragon Marshal Order**

“Are you alright?” Grif whispered, somewhere off in the complete darkness of their tent.

Simmons jumped slightly before he groaned and ran a hand over his head.

“I’m fine.” He lied.

“Uh-huh.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Uh-huh.” 

Simmons huffed, recognizing the tone immediately. Somewhere in the darkness was Grif, his head perched on his right hand, a distrusting eyebrow raised and a dangerous glint of worry in his eyes. He didn’t flinch when he heard Grif shuffle around in his furs and scooted closer, a warm hand tapping his shoulder.

It was a habit they had developed over the years, as Grif could see perfectly well in the darkness and Simmons could barely see in the light of day. Distant shapes had a tendency to be blurry for him. At first, Grif would twist a lock of his hair around his finger, jumping when the sudden touch out of nowhere in the complete darkness would freak Simmons out. After a few tries of ‘hey, I’m going to touch you now’, they had both settled in with Grif gently poking him on the shoulder to warn him where he was.

So, when Grif moved in more and scooted up so that Simmons’s head fit perfectly beneath his own, Simmons just relaxed and breathed in the smell of salt and sunshine once more. He huffed slightly when Grif nosed his hair a little bit, sniffing at him.

“We really needed that bath.” Simmons said, pressing his nose against Grif’s neck.

“Pity the Blues were there.” Grif muttered. “…And Sarge.”

“And y’know… the whole almost sneezing out an explosion and killing everyone.” It was almost inaudible, but naturally, Grif managed to pick it up. Simmons winced slightly; he was far too tired to have that conversation.

“So that’s why you can’t sleep-“

“I almost killed everyone, Grif! Gods, if I could go back and time and just switch specialization back at the school... I knew I should’ve done like… green magic or something. Or just stick with magical theory or engineering.”

“Not cryomancy?” 

Simmons didn’t need to be able to see in the dark to know the grin on Grif’s face. He scowled at him and kicked him, somewhat gently, in the shin. “Church can keep that crap.”

“But Simmons-“ Grif sing-songed. “Ice-cold ale.”

“Why don’t you cuddle up with Church then?”

Grif snorted. “No thanks. I’ll stick with my neurotic pyromancer half-god any day.”

He laughed loudly as Simmons groaned again and kicked him in the shin.

“What is your problem with my legs?”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, please shut up.” Tucker called from outside the tent. “It’s bad enough I got the graveyard shift, I don’t need to listen to your weird foreplay-talk.”

“Oh gods,” Simmons whispered, half-mortified. Grif was, naturally, completely unperturbed and only snuggled closer.

“Soooo is sex like completely off the table or-“

“YesGrifItIsCompletelyOffTheTable!” Simmons whispered furiously. “Gods, Sarge isn’t up, is he?”

Grif only snorted and continued to run his fingers through Simmons’s hair. They fell into a comfortable silence then, disturbed only by the occasional mutter from Tucker sitting watch outside by the fire. Yet, Simmons could feel a slight, minute tension in the way Grif twisted his hair around his fingers. He shuffled around awkwardly; his mind somewhere else. 

“Just ask, Grif.” Simmons said after a while.

“I’m just checking if you’re ok. We’ve been running across half this freaking island by now, and I know it’s not your favorite place to be so I guess I’m just…” He could feel Grif tap his back as he tried to figure out a good word for it. “…Checking in?”

Simmons snorted and shook his head. 

Between the rest of the Guild, and Doc and Donut by extension, finding out his power and him accidentally setting off a flame tongue due to the excess magic in the trigger, it had been a lot. Walking across the entire island, more or less, had actually helped Simmons focus on other things. Which led to him staring off into the distance during the nights, his mind in complete chaos.

“I’m… I’m not fine,” He admitted. “I'm just waiting on the Blues to freak out about the... Lopez-thing. I don't think I can handle more people being scared of that. I'm already freaking out over my powers, and I've had them forever. But they just... went 'ok' then."

Grif seemed confused. "Aaaand that's a bad thing? Do you want them to be scared of you?"

"No, no, no. I just-" Simmons bit his lip, trying to put the mess of his emotions into a semi-comprehensible sentence. "They should be. It's weird. It's scary."

"Yeah, magic in general is weird."

Simmons rolled his eyes with a groan. He could feel Grif's grip on him tighten as he let out a quiet laugh. "I keep thinking that they're freaking out behind my back, y'know. I'm just waiting on one of them to go 'no this is too much. You're out'."

"Oh, right." Grif said sarcastically. "Because the Blues run the show? I know Church bosses everyone around all the time, but do you seriously think Sarge would let the Blues kick you out? You're a Red. The only Red worth a damn, according to him thankyouverymuchSarge."

Simmons snorted despite the serious situation. He knew it was a stupid thing to worry about. Besides the, very understandable, initial freakout as he resurrected Lopez that one time in the harbor; everyone else had been fine. Maybe even more than fine. They were joking about it, laughing about it. But of course, because that's what Simmons's mind just had to do; he worried. And fretted. 

It was weird. It was scary. Freaky. Unnatural. Why were people so... ok with it?! 

He took a deep breath and nuzzled further into Grif's hair. Grif shuffled around to get his arm free and started to play with Simmons's hair gently.

"This..." Simmons whispered. "This stupid Guild is all I have, Grif."

"Thanks."

"That includes you, dumbass. I can't... I won't lose this."

He regretted the words immediately. He knew exactly what Grif would say next. He had said so many times. Everytime Simmons worried about losing the Guild, be it because of the fraternization laws or because of his necromancy, Grif always said 'I'll come with you'. Without a shadow of a doubt. Simmons wouldn't let it happen. As much as Grif complained about the Guild, especially Sarge, they were in the same situation. The Guild was everything they had. A purpose shielding them from the terriyfing possibility of being left in the dirt. Simmons had nothing. No family to go back to. At least Grif had-

"We're going to the Isles next." He said, swiftly changing the subject. Grif stiffened slightly, muttering something inaudible. "How are you holding up?"

“I’m just…” Grif stopped and sighed, serious enough that Simmons almost snapped his head up to take a good look at him. “I’m just a bit worried. Like a liiiittle bit worried. This isn’t a fetch-a-kidnapped-person-quest or a random escort. This isn’t what we usually do. Something’s up.”

Oh. The quest. Right. Simmons wanted to tell Grif that he believed different, that they were definitely the type of Guild that would be given this type of quest of, as Wash loved to call it, national importance. But it didn’t sit right with him either. It felt off. Like someone else was pulling the strings, and they were slowly but surely being further trapped into a complicated web.

“Maybe it’s because of Wash.” He tried. “York did admit that he was trying to get the Delta to give Wash the quest.”

“Right, so it’s a Blue problem, again.” Grif muttered. He stopped petting Simmons’s hair and settled for shuffling awkwardly again, as if trying to shake off irritation like it was just water. 

Simmons shuffled around, trying to disentangle his left arm from its pinned position underneath the furs. He moved to gently scratch at Grif’s arm.

“At least we’re going to the Isles next. I want to see your home.” 

Grif snorted.

“You know what I mean.” Simmons sighed. “People talk about it a lot, y’know. About the water, about the food, the sun, the ships-“

“The Admiralty throwing the poor to drown with the Sirens.”

Simmons winced and mouthed a curse. Was he not somewhat entangled with another person’s limbs he would’ve smacked himself in the face. Grif was quite evidently, not in the mood to be cheered up, judging by how his grip around Simmons’s waist had turned to iron. Sometimes he needed to wallow in anger for a while, sometimes he needed to vent out his frustration. But as Simmons was about to open his mouth to say something, anything, Grif snorted and rolled his shoulders.

“I am so good at this,” He laughed humorlessly. “I was supposed to ask you if you were ok.”

“Well, you did. You tried.” Simmons argued quietly.

“Hm.” 

They ended up in a somewhat awkward embrace, both of them somewhat tense and nervous, their minds off someplace dark. In the end, Simmons settled for resting his hand against Grif’s chest and tried to fall asleep to the somewhat erratic heartbeat.

**Backwash, Nochkit**

“Oh.” Doc said, slightly squeamish. “Yes, that’s Captain Ash, alright.”

The Guild had spent the last weeks on edge, awaiting frenzied Dragon Order scholars to come sprinting after them with murderous intent. When Backwash harbor had finally come into view, they all took a collective sigh. They were almost out of Nochkit, they were almost out of the country where they had accidentally angered the former Head of State Order. Well, the Marshal seemed quite level, but given the protectiveness from the rest of the Order; it didn’t matter. The Guild had certainly been villainized. Grif had spotted the Manu Wai soon enough, as the spiked warship stood out quite a lot, even as it was moored out far off in the water. 

And on the off chance that their hunter’s keen eye wouldn’t be able to catch sight of the ship, they would all be able to pick up on Captain Ash, screaming in a speaking trumpet from said ship.

“What are they doing?” Wash turned to Grif, who stood at the very edge of the pier in an attempt to listen in.

Grif gestured for him to keep quiet, while Sarge subtly moved to Lopez and said,

“Lopez. I will give you a stag if you push Grif into the water.”

“No, he won’t, old man!” Grif protested. He shimmied away from the pier with a glare. “I’m the hunter, you realize that, right? How are you gonna be able to get him a stag?”

“Leave that to me, dirtbag. Lopez, sic’ im!”

Lopez only yawned and sat next to Sheila’s cage to sniff at her, wholeheartedly ignoring the command. 

Grif gestured to the dog with a smug smile. “Better luck next time, Sarge!”

Wash sighed and rolled his shoulders. He scanned the harbor for a way for them to lessen the distance between the Manu Wai and themselves. If Captain Ash was in a charitable mood, although the loud echoes of the speaking trumpet battle further diminished that hope, perhaps she would agree to take them on once more. Naturally, it would be mere chance that the third-rate would be headed to the Egeniellan Isles, but Wash could only hope. It was, supposedly, quite the dangerous route, and few civilian ships would take the northern route to get to their destination. Most ships would take the absurdly longer route south of the entire mainland to get to the Isles instead. 

He sincerely hoped they wouldn’t have to resort to that, as that route would surely take them the better part of six months on ship. And Wash wasn’t certain the Guild could handle the rigorous military way of the Navy, regardless of whether they were paid guests or not. 

“Excuse me!” 

Wash turned sharply as the sweet voice of Franklin called for a woman just exiting a longboat. She looked up, blinked and immediately tried to fix her tangled, blonde hair.

“Yes?” She said, high and awkward. Franklin only smiled back.

“We are trying to come in contact with Captain Ash of the Manu Wai-“ Franklin gestured towards the ship. “-And I couldn’t help but notice that your longboat looks similar to the ones on that ship. Are you part of her crew?”

“I am.” She said proudly, suddenly standing up straight with her hands clasped behind her back. “Do you have business with my Captain?”

My Captain, Wash thought, smiling. Niner inspires loyalty, so it seems.

“Oh, we have travelled here on your ship, then!” Franklin clasped his hands together in delight. The woman seemed to further melt, and she seemed tempted to pat the Seer on the head with the

way she smiled warmly. 

“I see.” She started, before the sentence properly settled in her head. She blinked then. “Oh, The Reds and Blues?”

“The one and only.” Church said as he neared her as well. Wash hurried to stand next to him, ignoring Church’s roll of his eyes.

She didn’t seem to find Church’s and Wash’s company nearly as intriguing, and only gave them a long look before she turned back to Franklin. “If my memory serves me correctly, you were to talk to Captain Ash when you return. I can take-“ She glanced at Caboose and then back at the longboat. “-Some of you back to the ship.”

“Please do.” Wash said with a nod.

Church barely had the time to turn to the Guild before Tucker waved him away,

“Save it.” He said. “Only the Guild leaders blah-blah-blah. Stay here with Caboose, got it. I’m starting to see the freaking pattern here. You know that I technically outrank you, right?”

“Stop following my orders, then.” Church argued back with a devilish smile and a shrug.

“So that you can stomp your foot and whine about it? No thanks, man. I’d like to go a couple of hours without that headache.” He bit back as he crossed his arms.

Church rolled his eyes again and jumped into the boat with Wash, Sarge and Franklin, the latter waving quite happily to the rest of the Guild as they set off to get to the ship.  
Conversation flowed wonderfully between Franklin and the woman rowing, and Wash couldn’t help but smile quite fondly at the Seer; admiring his ability to bond with anyone seamlessly. Should Franklin need a different path in life, Wash could almost see him as a diplomat. 

The debate between the two Captains, as Wash was able to deduce as they neared the Manu Wai, had settled somewhat, though he could see Captain Ash and her first lieutenant locked in a heated discussion at the forecastle deck. O’Riley seemed to gesture at the other ship as Captain Ash only shook her head with an irritated glower, the speaking trumpet still near her lips.

Someone signaled something from the other ship, an ensign rising a flag and Wash heard Captain Ash laugh smugly in the trumpet.

“Well, look how quickly he changes his tune once his boss shows up.” She said with a grin towards O’Riley, as the latter looked at her with a blanched face. The speaking trumpet amplified her voice to echo across the water. 

“Captain, please-“ O’Riley said, also accidentally amplified. He stopped and cleared his throat with a blush across his handsome features.

“I heard that, Captain Niner.” Echoed another voice from the other ship, the voice quite prim and undignified.

“Yup, that’s because I YELLED IT THROUGH THE TRUMPET, YOU-“ Captain Ash started as she turned towards the other ship again, before O’Riley grabbed the speaking trumpet.

“Captain, no! I apologize for this, but I must insist on relieving you from this. You are not well, please rest your voice!” 

That sparked a worry in Wash, and as they ascended up to the forecastle deck to meet with the Captain, Wash’s first words came out in a flurry of,

“Greetings, Captain Ash, Lieutenant O’Riley. Are you unwell, Captain?” 

Both of them turned to look at them, Captain Ash with a surprised but amused smile and O’Riley with furrowed brows and thin lips.

“You just appear out of nowhere, don’t you, Washington?” 

He reddened and bowed properly to them. “My apologies, Captain, it was not my intention. I only heard the first lieutenant’s comment and I was concerned. Manners came in second, for a moment.”

She waved his apology away. She didn’t sound sick, but a flush of her cheeks and a certain glean in her eyes gave her away. “It’s nothing. Gods, I’ve been in battle with fevers much worse than this, stop fretting.” She turned to glare at O’Riley. “Both of you. Dismissed.”

O’Riley opened his mouth but thought better of it and touched his hat before he disappeared down the stairs.

“So…” She turned to them with a side-way grin. “A few boxes of cargo are, once again, looking for a ship? Where does your journey take you this time?”

“The isles, ma’am.” Wash said, and was quite pleased when Captain Ash grinned fully.

“Well then, Washington, it’s your lucky day. We’re leaving in two days.” She looked around. “Did you lose some on your way?”

“They’re waiting on the docks… ma’am.” Church nodded towards the pier. “We weren’t sure we’d be so lucky to be able to conscript your services again, so it felt unnecessary to strain the longboat with a full Guild.”

There he goes again, with the odd formality, Wash noted with a shake of his head.

“Well, getting you all aboard now is a bit too much.” Captain Ash scanned the ship as her crew worked around her. “But I’ll be expecting you here on the morrow, two days from now.”

“That can be arranged, madame.” Sarge said with a low bow. Captain Ash regarded him with an amused smile.

“Madame, he says. Wait ‘til Gloria hears this.” She sniggered behind her hand before clearing her throat and stood taller as she looked between the three men on board. “Gentlemen, the Manu Wai will continue to further aid you in your quest. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a speaking trumpet I need to steal back from my first lieutenant.”

  
***********

  
“What do you mean I’m pronouncing it wrong? I’m saying it just like it’s spelled!”

“Yes, but you have this… like really Potentian way of saying it-“

“For the love of the King, Donut, seriously?! How am I saying Potentia wrong when I’m saying it the Potentian way?”

“Because it’s not Potentian, Simmons! it’s ancient Helleci. You’re supposed to say it like Po-ten-ztia, don’t make the shhh-noise at the end-“

“Settle a bet, son.” Sarge clapped a hand around Wash’s shoulder, stirring him from his writing and making quite the mess of the words.

Wash sighed gently as he dapped the blot of ink away from the paper and turned to look at Sarge. “Yes, Sarge?”

“How do you pronounce it?”

“Pardon?” 

“Our proud nation.” Sarge nodded to where Simmons and Donut sat on the other side of the round table.

They had found an inn overlooking the harbor, nuzzled in quite perfectly between tall buildings, all smelling of sea and fish. The small space led to winding staircases up more floors than what was certainly safe, and the bar took up three of those floors. 

The Guild had been put in a corner, with a small, checkered window bursting open at every whim of the wind, making a mess of Wash’s attempts at writing, and snuffing out the rushlights placed on every table. Simmons had, in the beginning, been kind enough to make his way to Wash and snap his fingers to light the flame again; but now he had become quite occupied, and Wash had to write using the very dim mix of moonlight and patrolling guardsmen holding torches on the streets below.

He looked up to try to decipher the heated conversation between Simmons and Donut, but found himself at a loss. Sarge drummed his fingers at the table, awaiting an answer, but fell tired of waiting after a solid two seconds and turned to Church.

“You, blue! How is it pronounced?”

“Potenzia.” Church said immediately, trying to both drink his wine and rub a stain from said alcohol away from his sleeve. 

Sarge slammed his hand on the table with a curse, while Franklin cheered and clapped his hands. 

“See?” He said. “Potenzia, there’s a hidden z there!”

“Says you and Church, and who made you judges?”

“I’m part Helleci.” Church pointed out as he took another swig of his wine. “From my mother’s side. So, I should know. Potentia means power in ancient Helleci, that’s why it’s pronounced all weird.”

“Fine, fine, fine.” Simmons muttered as he procured two astari from his pockets and gave it to Franklin, just as Sarge tossed two of his own to him.

“Thanks, lads, happy to play with you!” The Seer smiled. He turned to Caboose, who looked positively miserable as he sat wedged between the wall and Simmons. “Mikael, come along! Let’s see if we can get our hands on something sweet!”

Caboose rose from his seat with such vigor the table shook and Wash struggled to get a hold of all of his papers as his ink bottle fell to the side and spilled half its content on the table. 

“By the mountains- No, Caboose; it is fine. Not your fault!” He waved away the apologetic grimace from Caboose and tried to seat himself further away from the stains.

Then Church snapped his fingers and the ink turned to black ice, glistening and hissing. Wash set to scrape it off with the point of his pen. 

“My thanks.” He nodded towards Church, who waved it away with a yawn. Then the mage settled his eyes to his papers. 

“What are you even writing?”

Wash huffed in surprise. “A report to the Grand Board, naturally. We are Guildsmen on a quest, and our Masters should receive news and reports as soon as we have had any progress.”

“Does that go through the Grand Board first or straight to the Delta?” He added, with a suspicious tone.

“To the Grand Board, of course. The Delta receives a report as well, do not worry. I know he has taken quite the interest in our quest.”

“Huh.” Church drummed his fingers against his goblet, but left the conversation there. 

Wash returned to his letter, or at least, tried to, before he realized that the one he was currently on had been snatched up by Grif, who looked at it with a confused stare.

“Phelee’s breath, Wash, you have the worst handwriting I’ve ever seen.”

“You needn’t remind me.” Wash said as he took it back. He settled down to look at it. A couple more sentences and it could be sent. It was, perhaps, not the best report he had ever written, but it would do. The discovery of a trigger had taken up the vast majority of the letter, with detailed descriptions of its size and shape for the ever-inquisitive eldest prince, and the part about the Dragon Order had been diminished quite profusely, but still mentioned. He jotted down a few more words, now terribly self-conscious about his handwriting, before he pronounced it done and rolled it up, warmed the wax over the rushlight Simmons lit with a snap of his finger, and sealed it with their Guild stamp.

“I’ll send this away, would you mind?” He announced as he turned to Sarge, who shuffled away from him. But Church snatched it from his fingers.

“I’ll do it.” He said, yawning and stretching. “I need to get out of here anyway, get some fresh air. Are you guys staying up?”

“My thanks.” Wash nodded. “But I believe that I will be bidding you all good night-“

“But, Mr Washingtub-” Caboose and Franklin shimmied through the crowd to get to them. Both carried several pastries, far more than necessary for just the two of them. Caboose looked immensely disappointed, and his eyes went back and forth between the pile of pastries gathered in his arms and Wash. “-We got some for you too.”

“Oh.” Wash blinked. “That’s quite alright, Caboose. I am not much for sweets.”

“Nope, not an option. Sit, Wash.” Tucker grinner as he crossed his arms. “You can’t end the day breaking Caboose’s heart.”

“The big man has a soft heart.” Sarge agreed. He drummed at the table with his fingers, mulling something over. “Y’know what, I need to discuss tactics with Simmons, yes I do. Blue, switch with me!”

Sarge got up before Tucker had even agreed to anything, but the younger man stared at him with an incredulous look.

“Whyyyy?” He said.

“Were you not listening, son?” Sarge said. He grabbed the back of Tucker’s chair and shimmied it away from the table. Tucker sputtered, but eventually got up and moved to take another seat.

“Oh, actually-“ Franklin chimed in very urgently, and he snatched the chair right as Tucker tried to sit in it. “Sorry, I wanted to sit here. You can sit next to Wash!”

Franklin was positively beaming, and met Tucker’s murderous look with a brilliant smile. Tucker turned to Church with a homicidal look.

“Oh, you fucking asshole.” 

Wash looked between them with a raised eyebrow.

“Am I missing something?”

“No.” Tucker said quickly as he sat down next to Wash, crossing his arms and glaring at the rest of the Guild.

“I didn’t say shit, man. You’re obvious enough on your own.” Church said with a grin.

Wash turned to some of the others with a puzzled look, but neither Sarge nor Grif seemed to want to enlighten him, and Simmons looked just as puzzled as he did. Wash turned back to Tucker to enquire, but the rogue seemed oddly jumpy, which elicited a snort from Church.

Tucker flipped him off.

The cryomancer looked almost feral with his grin. “You ok there, Tucker?”

“I’m fine, Church.”

“You sure? You look a little embarrassed.”

“Fuck off, man. Don’t you have a report to send or some shit?”

Church walked away laughing. Wash looked between Tucker, who seemed determined to sink through the bench and melt away into nonexistence

“Would you like this one? It’s called a black bun.” Caboose waved one of the sweets in Wash’s face, blissfully unaware of the confusion.

Wash looked at the pastry with great skepticism. “Caboose, I am not -ow- yes, thank you, Caboose. That’s very nice of you.” He sent a scolding look towards Franklin, who had shimmied down his own chair to hit him in the chin. The Seer sent another blinding smile his way as he nibbled on a strawberry tarte. 

“Whatever are you looking at, Wash?” Franklin said sweetly.

Wash took a small bite of his pastry. “Nothing, Seer Franklin. Nothing at all.” 


	39. Sea and Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Building up the climax of the first volume in a believable crescendo? Don't know her.  
> Have ALL THE DRAMATIC BATTLES!
> 
> Now if you excuse me, I have to hop back to my exam crunch. Stay safe!

**Manu Wai**

**The Siren Sea**

Grif was about three centimeters away from being rammed by a young midshipman as she turned around to sprint down the poop deck stairs and grab the lead. He muttered an apology, but the young girl had already vanished down below.

When the ensign had come down to their cabin to say that the Captain was looking for him, specifically, he damn neared jumped out the window instead. Wash had looked at him like he had surely done something wrong on purpose, because that’s how Wash always looks, while Simmons had just nudged him out the door with a reassuring nod.

“She’s from the Isles, like you.” He had said. “Maybe she just wants to talk? Bond? Something like that?”

Grif looked up to see Captain Ash discuss something with her lieutenants, her grip white on the sextant she held in one hand. Why do I doubt that she just wants to talk?

After a couple of years on the sea, the hierarchy seemed ingrained in his bones. While it was very easy to be insubordinate to some -hi, Sarge yes I mean you- he stood tall and still behind the group of people in front of him and waited for her to allow him to come forward.

She snapped her fingers with a sharp command, something beneath her breath Grif couldn’t hear, but the lieutenants and the midshipmen scattered quickly. She then motioned him forward and stood to look out from the stern end of the deck.

“You look scared shitless,” She pointed out. Grif couldn’t help but snort at that.

“Well, if you keep holding that sextant like that, Captain, you’ll probably break it.” He pointed out. “So yeah-yes, I thought I should… stay here.”

She looked down at the instrument in her hand then, cursing, before putting it in a box and gesturing for an ensign to come take it away.

“I had taken it upon myself to teach the midshipmen today. As you can see, it went fantastic.”

“…Sure, Captain.” Grif had hoped he would be able to somehow figure out why the hell Captain Ash had summoned him, but so far, he was at a complete loss. Guests were prooobably not supposed to be competing in archery competitions with the master-at-arms-mates, but he had stepped over those lines many times over the course of both of their journeys across the seas and he had never received any trouble from anyone. Well, apart from Wash.

“Am I… Have I… done something, Captain?” He fumbled with the words there, remembering damn well how to salute her but not how to talk to her. He didn’t exactly get the opportunity to talk to the Captains on the ships he had actually served on, so he had no idea what to do.

“No.” She said coolly. When Grif stood still, awaiting some sort of explanation as to why he was there, she only tapped the gold-painted railing a meter away from her, as if to assign him a place to stand.

_…Ok then._

Grif walked up and stood next to her, balancing on the balls of his feet awkwardly and fighting against the urge to whistle.

“Do you see what color the sea is?”

Grif blinked and looked out over the vastness of the ocean. The sun was coming down on them, painting the sky slightly red and orange; and the sea, naturally, reflected that.

“It’s… uh… sundown… ma’am?”

“See, here’s the thing.” She turned to look at him, her fingers tapping the railing. “I could’ve sworn that I remembered that your eyes were green. Or greenish-blue. Like the waters of Tempest. And then, when we left Backwash, they were orange.”

Grif tried to not look alarmed. His heart began to beat faster and he couldn’t help but dart his eyes someplace else. Simmons had helped him come up with excuses, most of them way more reasonable than his own lies had been for the past years.

“-And now they’re red. And a little bit of orange.” She continued. She dragged her nails across the wood, almost like she was filing them to sharpen them up. She turned to him again. “And I bet you my whole damn wage that once the sun is set and the sea turns dark, your eyes will do as well. See, it’s a little telltale thing about a certain… group of beings that hang around sirens. I’m sure you know which ones I’m talking about.”

 _Simmons, help me._ Grif’s mouth had turned dry, and he could only open it and close it again. It was way too late to pretend that he had no idea what she was talking about, and so he had to try to figure out how the hell he could ensure that he was in fact very friendly and not in the business of causing trouble to her.

“I-“

“No, don’t speak. I’ve suspected it for a long-ass time, I’m going to bask in how smart I am and you just get to stand there.”

He blinked again, and felt terribly stupid again. See, unlike Wash, who was proper and probably never cursed even while thinking; Captain Ash definitely seemed to have it as a front. Grif had seen his fair share of officers and, sure, some always spouted on about how you need to be proper and strict and regal and yada-yada-yada; but he had never come across someone who was so incredibly different from the mask of a Captain they all needed to don. Normally, he would’ve thought that was dope, but now he was just a little bit scared. He had no idea where to place her now.

“So, who picked you up?”

“Wha- I mean, ma’am?”

She smirked, but her eyes were hollow and cruel. “Which siren decided to pick you up and take you in after the Admiralty tried to drown you?”

It was almost enough to get Grif to flash back to the day where he had, in fact, been purposefully drowned by the leaders of the Egeniellan Isles. He could almost taste the salt on his tongue, the panic and adrenaline rushing through his body and for just a moment he remembered how he tried to scream his sister’s name while sinking to the bottom of the sea.

“I’ve upset you.” Captain Ash said when Grif didn’t respond.

“Yeah, no shit.” He muttered. He tried to shake the anger off of him, but found himself unable to do so. Then he remembered she had asked him a question. _What the hell_ ¸ he thought, _I’m already fucked_. “Huggins. She got me and my sister-“

He stopped there, his brow furrowing. Sure, most people were a little bit skeptical whenever the Admiralty tried to convince their subjects that all of those who had been turned into… what he was… were all unfortunate people who fell from their ship, lost at sea etc etc, try not to cry your eyes out now. Most people suspected something else, surely. And Captain Ash seemed smart enough to doubt the Admiralty. But it’s not like it was common sailor knowledge that those who drowned oh so misfortunately were in fact picked up and saved by sirens, let alone that they usually kept them in their service afterwards.

But as he opened his mouth to ask her, she burst out laughing for a split second.

“Huggins? Oh hell, of course, she did. She can’t stop picking up strays.”

Grif stared at her, leaning back a little bit. He looked at the sea, at the sun reflecting and turning it pink, orange and red, and then back at her eyes. Pink, orange, and red.

He huffed in shock. “See, I could’ve sworn your eyes were green, once.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She shook her head. “You’re a genius, kid. So, Huggins picked you and… your sister up then. Lucky you, I got Muggins. Couldn’t wait to get rid of him.”

“I-uh.” He tried to shake the shock away. Another one, just like him. Serving on a ship- no, _captaining_ a ship. It felt surreal. There was no way in hell that the sailors knew, probably not even the officers. Sailors were a superstitious folk at best, and paranoid little shits at worst. The Admiralty would’ve never accepted a Dripfolk Captain, no way in hell. Dripfolk were, officially, of the Siren sea, and anything from the Siren Sea scared the shit out of even the most experienced sailor. Having a being that was connected to the Sirens on a ship was absolutely inconcievable. Even if it was, in Grif's opinion, stupid as fuck. He was never conflicted on his loyalties. Most Sirens didn't care. They just didn't want people to drown in their waters.

“So, from one former-human-turned-some-weird-underwater-freak to another, what number did you get?” There was a glint of urgency in her tone. Grif didn’t get it. It still burned on occasion, and sometimes Grif couldn’t help but pass the mark on the back of his neck whenever he tried to untangle his hair. It hurt. It stung. And it smelt like hell when the Admiralty had heated the metal and burned it into his skin.

“M12B.” He said, quietly.

“Oh hell, they’ve started with letters now?” She snorted. “So, either the fuckers are going through people like crazy and don’t want to burn like five numbers in now, powers forbid, or they’re switching up because they’re bored.”

“Yeah.” He said, noncommittally. He turned to look at her, a little bit more relaxed now. Huggins and Muggins were siblings and while they would fight on occasion, there were no real battles or territorial disputes to be had between them. Which meant, on the off chance that Captain Ash was super loyal to her master, there would be no rivalry between her and Grif. They were in different shoals, sure, but they were friendly with each other. Which might’ve explained the Captain’s cold tone at first, assessing him and trying to figure out which siren he served. Again, he didn't serve anyone. Muggins wasn't like that at all. But maybe her brother was more territorial.

“So,” He dared. “Yours?”

She snorted and moved a section of her hair near her scalp. It was difficult to see anything, really, so when Grif only looked at her scalp she said “479.”

“Don’t you go by Niner?” He said.

“Sure do. To friends and family. Which, to be crude, I guess includes you now. Sibling-shoals and whatnot.” She said and slapped him on the back. Grif winced.

_Fucking hell she’s strong._

“You’ve got nothing to fear from me, is all I’m saying. Hell, I honestly thought you would figure me out, and tell the Admiralty. They’ve gone through so many people that they sure as hell don’t remember the faces of their victims anymore. We’re just numbers to them.”

“Yup, we sure are.” Grif said, looking out at the sun, slowly setting. He glanced at her, noticing how her eyes turned from red to indigo, to navy.

“Care for a drink?” She said, casually, yawning slightly. “I say we have a joint freakship to bond over.”

Grif snorted. “After you, Captai- Niner.”

“Captain Niner.” She laughed as she led the way down the deck. “I should try to get O’Riley to start calling me that.”

****

“Pardon me, bosun?” Wash said as he approached the woman warily. “I hate to disturb you, but I don’t suppose the good lady has seen one of our men up here?”

She turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “You mean the one from the Isles, I take it? Dining with the Captain. Or, well, drinking with the Captain, I suppose. It’s a bit too early for supper. Captain likes her meals late.”

“Ah.” Wash nodded, but found himself standing still where he stood, his fingers drumming the railing of the aftercastle deck. He had managed to pick up a little on the habits of the ship, and couldn’t help but glance at the spyglass in her hand. Last time he checked, the bosun was never on watch, and would therefore have little need for the lead. Least of all what looked like the Captain’s spyglass.

“May I inquire-“ He stopped then, turning quiet as he spotted something in his peripheral. The sea was calm enough that it seemed peculiar for it to froth and turn white, and so the waves far off from where he was seemed a bit…odd.

“What’re you staring at?”

“Right there! Lend me your eyes, bosun.” He pointed towards where the waves frothed and swelled oddly. “See the waves?”

Orion’s brow furrowed as she looked through the glass wildly. She blanched, her freckles turning into a smatter of red constellations on a pale surface. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck! Where the hell is the Officer of the Watch?!”

She turned on her heels and sprinted to the bow end of the deck, blowing the whistle as loud as she could. The shrill noise seemed to echo over the open sea, and Wash felt his breath turn short.

“Beat to quarters!” She bellowed. “Beat to quarters, all hands man their battle stations!”

The command echoed between the crew on deck, a continuous drumroll began somewhere down in the first gundeck and before long people streamed out of every hatch and door on the ship. Orion continued to blow the bosun pipe amongst screaming orders between cupped hands.

“Beat to quarters! Sea dragon, two points off the starboard bow! Beat to quarters!”

Sea dragon?! Wash took his hands off the railing and took a few steps back as the full 500 crew members worked swiftly around him. He found himself locked in place as he stared at the frothing waves coming straight towards them.

Every now and then he’d see a glimpse of something horribly slimy and black glistening in the moonlight. The black mass seemed long and oily, with frilled ridges along its coils. The head would pop up as it traversed towards them at great speed, three rows of sharp teeth in an open mouth frothing with rage. Its eyes were small and wild, distracted with fury as it released a terrible cry of attack.

“What is the meaning of this?” A midshipman came up on the deck, furious. “Bosun, you will remember that you are not authorized for this command. I-“

“So you’re the officer of the watch, ey?” Orion said with alarming calmness. She grabbed the, much taller, officer by his cravat and pulled him down. “If you had done your job that fucker would’ve had two rounds of cannons in it already! Why the hell do we still have you around if you’re not gonna do your job?! Outta my way!”

She wriggled past as the, somewhat stunned, midshipman looked at Wash in mounting anger and offense.

“I’ve never-“ He started.

“Turn us broadside! Bring up the starboard battery!” Yelled Niner as she came sprinting up the stairs to the poop deck, a wine stain covering her cravat. Her coxswain shook himself off from the temporary shock, staring at the frothing monster, and turned the wheel hard.

“Get to the main mast!” Niner yelled and grabbed the front of Wash’s shirt. “That fucker will squeeze the ship in half, get to the fucking center!”

“On it!” Wash stammered a very weak reply at the surprising brutality of her words as his legs barely carried him down the stairs. He was shoved out of the way by everyone sprinting to their battle station. O'Riley rammed him as he passed the mizzenmast, but for once simply ignored him and continued on, shouting to the guncrew and the powder monkeys.

At last he reached somewhat close to the main mast, coming across a wild looking Guild.

“What the hell happened?” Church yelled over the chaos.

Wash only pointed to the frothing shape bearing towards their side. Church only squinted at first, trying to see it, before he too turned pale. “What in the planes of hell is that?!”

“A sea dragon!” Wash yelled back.

“A fucking what?!” Grif screeched. “If that’s a fucking spitter, we’re gonna die! The blades are useless on those!”

He jumped away from parts of the guncrew coming together to attempt to aim three carronades directly towards the monster, the heavy iron cannons barely moving.

“Caboose!” Church yelled and gestured at the guncrew. Caboose nodded and barreled over to them, moving the cannon at the Fingal’s directions.

“Fire!”

The carronades were pushed back by the trajectory, one slightly halted as it hit Caboose square in the stomach. The giant man only grunted slightly and moved back to the mainmast, rubbing his stomach and saying ‘ouch’ to being rammed by a cannon.

The sea dragon groaned as two of the three carronades hits its coiling body, a sickly fluorescent liquid spilling out from its sides in small jets.

“It’s a spitter, ma’am!” cried a midshipman to the helm where Niner stood with a looking glass.

For a second, she looked about as green as the acidic sludge streaming from the sea monster’s body.

“Storm!” She yelled. “Fire broadside and close the gunports, if you please! She’ll be spitting acid into our gundecks if we give her a chance!”

“Aye, aye!” Storm rushed down the main deck.

Then the ship gave a jerk, as if hit broadside at ramming speed, trembling like a leaf. Niner flew into the railing of the poop deck, a brutal gash in her head bleeding down her face like a queer, red rain and her legs crumbled in odd, unnatural positions.

Crewmen climbing the riggings fell down from their positions in the gales and tops, and some got caught in the ratlines, hanging with open, unblinking eyes from the ropes.

“She’s under us!” yelled Storm from the forecastle deck.

Wash, recovering from his tumble down the main deck, tried to shake the ringing in his ears away as he grasped the railing. The monster was still a minute away, at the least. Then a sickly green flute, three meters wide, emerged from the water on their portside, about eighty meters away.

“Another Sea dragon, portside!” Storm bellowed as the broadside cannons fired, drowning out his findings.

A monstrous cry echoed in the air as the head of the new sea dragon emerged from the water, its huge body already coiling around the hull of the ship. It hissed and spat, sickly green acid raining across the whole weather deck.

“Close the hatch, damn you!” The bosun whip cracked clearly and singular between piped commands. “Batten down the hatches, we’re getting acid down to our gun decks!”

The Guild seemed blessedly free from the spits of acid so far, but the horror was obvious on those less fortunate.

The first lieutenant, O’Riley threw his coat to the wind as it started to steam, and batted water on the sleeve of his shirt, a bubbling wound covering his shoulder. An arm’s mate cried in agony as the left side of his face seemingly melted and pulled away from his skull, collapsing into a bloody goo.

Gloria Warlow, the second lieutenant, had grabbed the shoulders of the unconscious Captain and bellowed orders to passing crew to take her down to the surgeon as the water crashed right next to her and one of the sea dragons snapped its jaw around her midriff, blood spurting. Warlow cried out in agony but yanked the captain off of her -Niner landing on the poop deck once more in the arms of a crew- before she disappeared completely into maws of the beast. A grotesque lump bulged from the monster’s neck as it swallowed its prey.

Annie Warlow, the lieutenant’s daughter and armorer, cried in rage and sprinted across the quarterdeck with her sword unsheathed, before the bosun’s whip came cracking down at her feet.

“In line, Warlow, back in line!” Bellowed Orion, her voice hoarse. “Get back to your position or so help me gods I’ll have you whipped to the bone!”

The ship groaned as the coils of one of the sea dragons squeezed its body around the ship, jets of acid hitting the hull and exposed wood. Sailcloth began to fall to the weather deck in a queer rain as acid hit the sails. The Sailmaker and his mates climbed the ratlines to reach the sails, the carpenter’s mates close on their tails with tools.

“Axes!” came an order from O’Riley, with Orion taking up the call, her hands cupped around her mouth. The whistle sounded once more, and every able-bodied hand not yet occupied with repairs and guns rushed to grab axes and other hacking weapons.

“All able-bodied hack away,” Orion cried, gesturing at the Guild. “That means you too!”

Wash could only nod as his body seemed to work on its own. The Guild grabbed axes and pickaxes, Caboose grabbed an absurdly large battle axe that must’ve been a prize won from an enemy ship, before they found a position near the gangway.

Sailors hacked away at the coiling body, some flinching and tearing away as it shook and groaned, but were brought back into position by the bosun’s whip. Orion seemed to sprint across the entire weather deck, whipping the hacking sailors into discipline.

Caboose’s battle axe came heaving down at the coil exposed by the gap of the gangway, and it cleaved halfway through the body before the axe got stuck, the steel melting away as the acid inside the body gnawed at it.

“Back away!” cried the master-of-arms as acid came in spurts down the hull. “Bosun, we need to wash the acid away!”

Wash felt his feet oddly tinging and looked down only to find some of the acid washing across the deck and over the feet of the crew, the watered-down poison not strong enough to melt bone, but enough to tear at leather.

Another piped command came from the bosun’s whistle as the carpenter was pulled down from the tops, buckets of water already washing away some of the acid.

The sea dragon cried in agony at its wounds, and Wash spotted the sword of Gloria Warlow jammed in its mouth, poking through the lower side of the jaw. It retracted from the ship and backed away from them, sluggish from the blood loss.

But before they had even roused themselves enough to celebrate the retreat, a cry came;

“Incoming! All hands brace!”

And Wash found himself clinging to the railing, looping his arm through a hole in the hull as the first sea dragon they had originally spotted came at them, ramming its head against the starboard side.

The ship jerked once more, but this time the crew in the sails were prepared and held fast in their positions. Wash felt himself almost lift as the ship listed, the mizzenmast creaking and groaning ominously.

The flute of the dragon came whipping down the stern hull, smashing the windows of the captain’s cabin as its head came down in frothing rage upon the weather deck, snapping its jaw towards anything that came its way.

“Something really fucking wrong with this one, sir!” Cried a bosun’s mate to O’Riley. “I reckon it’s sick and delusional. Maybe we can distract it somehow!”

“Pyromancers at the stern!” O’Riley ordered, and Simmons disappeared -somewhat reluctantly- up to the poop deck.

“Strike and fire afar, we want to see if we can lure it away. And if I see a fancy shape or a swirly fire tongue, I’ll have the bosun’s whip on you. We need to preserve the arcane energy. Fire, gentlemen, fire!”

Tongues of flames not unlike comets sailed away from the stern, some popping like fireworks.

The enraged monster turned its head away from the ship for a second, its tail lashing in the water. It roared and the frill on the body became taut and puffed up, apparently thinking the fireworks to be an enemy coming to claim its prey.

Instead of turning to meet its supposed attacker, however, it coiled around the ship jealously with a ferocity the other had lacked, and splinters flew off in explosions.

Grif cried in pain as small spikes embedded themselves in his back, a small trickle of blood running down them. Wash yelped and swirled his cloak around him, splinters raining down on them. He turned around in panic, looking to see if anyone else in the Guild had any injuries. He could’ve sworn he saw Caboose yank out a piece of wood from his own neck, but he merely rubbed it slightly, and no blood fell. Church only had some small dust in his hair, and Tucker had been clever enough to duck behind the raised hatch as the portside’s splinters were ejected like projectiles. Up on the poop deck, Simmons seemed completely unharmed.

Church climbed over him to get to Grif’s injuries, but the latter only shook him off.

“Save the energy, I’ll be alright. Give me a fucking tong and I’ll get these myself.”

Hyde, the caulker, fell down beside Tucker with a weirdly pale face, his hands clutching at his injured neck. Blood came in violent spurts, and before Wash could open his mouth to ask Church for aid, his hands fell and his eyes became dull.

The flute came down again, this time hitting the already strained mizzenmast at full strength. Warning cries came from the crew in the tops, some of them climbing down the ratlines at breaking speed.

“’ware, the stern! She’s gonna fall! Away from the aftercastle!” O’Riley yelled as he shoved men from harm’s way, before, at the very last second, ducking away from the beam himself. Simmons came tumbling down the stairs, sprinting back to Grif with a worried look.

The world seemed oddly quiet for a second, as the whole ship seemed to hold its breath. Then an ugly crack broke the silence, and the mizzenmast broke right before the tops, the heavy mast crashing down. It smashed into the aftercastle, turning the raised area into a mess of wood and cloth. The mast groaned and creaked as it was dragged further down into the water, the ship turning queerly as it tugged at its ropes like a misplaced anchor.

“Cut her loose!” O’Riley called, the piped command coming in at the same time. “Cut her loose! Axes at the ready!”

Wash grabbed an axe and grasped at Caboose’s arm, who had managed to get a hold of two axes, and they both volunteered to maneuver the ruins of the aftercastle to cut the ropes. The ship turned oddly, pulled down by the fallen mast, and Wash scrambled to keep his footing on the keeling floor.

The axes were weak, and the men swinging them slowed down by exhaustion, but in the end, they managed to cut the ropes, and the ship steered up with cries of victory by the crew.

The sea dragon still squeezed and whipped its tail about, and a carpenter’s mate came from the hatch, drenched in water and acid; his arms red and bloated, yelling; “We’re losing her! She’s taking on too much water! We’ll have to abandon her!”

 _Abandon ship?!_ Wash thought. It’s as much of a death sentence as to sink down with her. The sea dragon would happily pick its prey out from both waves and wreckage. The crew on board seemed to have thought the same, with a dull realization hitting them; they were probably not going to make it.

“Fucking hell, then.” Church said as Wash and Caboose ran back to their position. “Outta my way!”

“What are you doing?!” Tucker screamed as the mage ran past him. “You’re no use down there!”

Church gestured something Wash couldn’t quite see before he sprinted down the deck.

Wash turned to Tucker with a question at his lips, but Church was back before he knew it. Battle mage staff in hand. 

He fastened a crystal at the top, the rock shining with frost. Church ran towards where the sea dragon roared and frothed acid down the deck.

“Hey!” He yelled, and struck the deck with the blunt end of his staff. A great pillar of light rose from the crystal, the air turning cold.

Wash tried to blink away the frost that suddenly covered his eyelashes. His breath fell short again, not unlike it had done when Simmons accidentally triggered the magic at the Dragon Order. Snowflakes started to swirl around Church and frost started to bite the ship around him. The sea dragon turned its head and roared, but the jets of acid crystallized at a remarkable speed and fell down to the deck as harmless icicles.

Besides the magic explosion at the Order, Wash had not seen so much magic floating around in air. He blinked some of the swirling snowflakes away and couldn’t help, war be damned, to be bitterly impressed by the Scanian arcane arts.

“A battle mage.” The bosun said hoarsely, crouching down to grab one of the icicles to toss them overboard. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

The sea dragon roared once more, unperturbed by its projectile attack turned into ice and lunged. A horrible crack stopped the dragon in its path, frost building inside its mouth. Before ten seconds had passed, the entire serpent’s head was engulfed in ice.

Church swirled his staff one last time and let it come down once more, cracking the floor. The sound echoed far too loudly than what the action merited, and Wash couldn’t help but huff in surprise. Whatever Battle Mages did, it was something he had never seen before.

Suddenly, as if sliced by a giant knife, the head separated from its neck, the great body coiling away as it fell into the water with a great, wet sound. The head came down towards the weather deck as the crew and officers scrambled to get away from it. Wash felt his heart drop. The skull was far too large for the deck to manage. It would crash through the whole ship and sink it-

Church uttered what might’ve been a curse or a spell, and grabbed his staff like a javelin, heaving it towards the falling head with a supernatural speed. As the staff hit, the head shattered into a thousand pieces and fell upon the deck in a rain.

Some of the crew were hit by the icicles, pierced through flesh and bone they cried out in agony, clutching their limbs to them. Orion grasped at the side of her head as a piece of her scalp threatened to fall off, managing to steer away from lethal injury but not lucky enough to avoid getting sliced.

Wash tried to stand, but fell down once more as a sharp pain hit his knee. His hand came away wet and bloody, a smattering of ice had found its way to the back of his knee.

At first, it was silent, no one dared to cheer. The ship groaned and creaked oddly, and below the carpenter’s crew could be heard heaving water from the cracks in the hull. But the skull had been shattered, and the immediate danger was gone.

“Go on lads!” Storm yelled with delight, clutching his injured arm. “We live to fight another day!”

The cheers on the weather deck exploded, followed by the crew down below. Few stood uninjured, but everyone cheered to the best of their abilities.

Wash find himself laughing as he wiped away the sweat from his forehead, realizing far too late that he had probably smeared blood on his face instead.

“All injured down below!” Orion bellowed as well as she could muster with her broken voice. “Let’s give the surgeon an excuse to use that fucking saw of hers!”

Laughter rang between the men as the wounded were assessed and carried towards the hatch. A powder monkey snuck towards Church’s staff laying still on the quarterdeck. As his hand reached out to grasp it, a midshipman- the Officer of the Watch who had seemingly neglected his duties- grabbed at his shoulders.

“Taken leave of your senses, have you, boy?” He said. “That’s a battle mage staff; Scanian magic. it’s cursed.”

Wash could see Church’s cheek twitch in annoyance

“Let me take it off your hands then.” Church said coldly. “Hiit.”

The queerly sounded spell had no effect, and Church groaned loudly. “Fucking draining ice-spells-bullshit.”

“I second that.” Simmons said with a small smile. Church shoved him somewhat good-naturedly before he grabbed his staff.

The ship still creaked and groaned ominously, joined by the echoes of water rushing in through her lower decks. It turned into an odd melody of doom, and Wash couldn’t help but find it beautiful in a terrifying, exhausting way only a soldier accepting death could do.

As parts of the crew fell where they stood, taking breaths of relief or terror, O’Riley’s voice became odd and distant for a few seconds before they all returned to reality.

Orders were still bellowed from the quarterdeck, but they were met with languid groans and sighs. Wash shook himself free of his exhaustion and stood up, determined to not disobey orders until the very last.

“We will prepare longboats, if you please.” O’Riley said with no small amount of vehemence at the crew as he descended upon them. “Shall she live to set sails again; we can at least unburden her for now. Prepare the longboats. Anything we won't immediately need for repairs can be pulled from behind!”

The crew roused themselves at last and set at work, which once more meant the Guild stood about in the midst of it; somewhat confused and itching to help.

O’Riley came to them soon enough with sharp footsteps. From afar, Wash could see Storm grimace and turn to them as well, as if ready to intervene an argument.

“You will tell your allegiances, mage, and you will tell them true!” O’Riley said sharply, turning to Church.

It took them all a second or two to realize what the first lieutenant even meant, and then it was met with a sharp glare from said mage.

“I was trained in Scania before the war.” He argued. “And I sure as hell didn’t come here as a spy, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“I see little reason to believe you, given how you somehow failed to mention your status to us before-“

“Maybe because of the way battle mages are treated here?” Tucker chimed in with a bitter tone. “Just a thought.”

“You will not speak until called upon, sir.” O’Riley answered. Tucker huffed at the response, but bit his cheek and glared at the first lieutenant.

“I don’t usually tell people that I am, _yes I admit it_ , a battle mage because of this bullshit treatment.” Church said, effectively saying the exact same thing Tucker had said previously. “I can’t help my training, and you really needed it, I might add. Without my magic, we’d be dead.”

“You’ll forgive me if I am not groveling at your feet when that spell saved your own hide as much as ours. You have shown no allegiance but to your own Guild, and as the first lieutenant of a ship in His Majesty’s Navy; it will not permit, sir, it will not.” O’Riley raised a finger at Storm as he approached. “And no, Storm; this is not a debate you can enchant away. I’ve had quite enough of your honeyed words for the time being. You will see to our crew and our men, dismissed!”

Storm raised his arms in defeat, terribly informal for a third lieutenant, and muttered a “Well, I tried.” Before he took off.

“Okay, so what the hell will you have me do then?” Church said. “I’m a member of a Guild on a quest of national importance, and you’re gonna do what?” He waved his arm. “…Leave me here to die? Keep me under lock and key on the Sun Isles until the Delta himself come to you straight? You’ve seen our papers, our quests and our sigils; what more can you want? I’m not your enemy!”

“How fares the Captain?” O’Riley turned to Veritas as she emerged from the lower deck, effectively cutting off Church’s argument.

Veritas was an eerie sight, blood covering her forearms and chest, specks of it on her cheek. She pulled her hair back to a practical ponytail, her mouth a fine line.

“I can't save her legs.”


	40. Grif tosses an emergency beacon in the water. It’s all part of the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished a two day exam and boi I want sleep.  
> But hey, have a chapter :D

****

** Manu Wai **

** The Siren Sea **

“Miss von Staahl, are you quite aware that a part of your scalp seems to be falling off?” Veritas said with a dead expression.

“YesIhaveNoticedThatFredrikaThankYou” The bosun replied in one breath as a surgeon’s mate came towards her with a thread and needle.

Wash’s mouth fell open as his mind kept repeating Veritas’s verdict. _Oh, Ash_ , he thought, as a horrible influx of memories of the Captain flooded his brain. It seemed quite a cruel fate, to lose parts of her own body to feral beasts and not in battle. The Navy would not remember it favorably, and she would most likely be remembered for losing a third-rate frigate in calm waters on a clear night, regardless of what her crew might tell.

O’Riley’s face had turned white, but he held himself quite admirably for a rigorous soldier losing his respected superior officer. “Doctor, is there-“

“No, Mr. O’Riley, there is not.” She said as she looked past him and fixed her gaze upon the ice shards scattered across the weather deck. “The arcane energy we used for healing was cut _quite_ short suddenly, and we have more losses than what I had originally thought. Her right leg’s gone, and the left one’s not too far behind. She’ll never walk without cane, _at best_. I assume the magical ice over there had something to do with it?”

“Oh, fuck.” Wash heard Church mutter in amounting horror. He presented himself to her. “I did that. The… situation seemed… pretty bad, and I took it upon myself to use magic to kill it quickly, so that we wouldn’t lose the ship.”

The words rang rather hollow as the crew behind them rigged the longboats for travel, and the ship looked more like a wreckage by the minute.

“I hope it was worth it.” Veritas said, with cold professionalism.

She walked past them and checked the injuries of the bosun, with a worried Storm watching over them both. O’Riley walked off as well, his gaze distant.

Wash turned to Church, whose head was downcast and his cheeks pale. Guilt carried on his face, clear as day, and the mage muttered several curses before he finally looked up at the rest of the Guild.

“You didn’t know, man.” Tucker said.

“I should have.” Church argued back. “I’m not used to the energy levels here, I didn’t think about how much energy all my spells take. The _cannons_ probably don’t work now, if she can’t even use a little bit of healing magic. I screwed up! Big freaking time.”

He took a deep breath and rubbed his mouth. Then he stalked off to the railings, pulling at his hair and muttering stuff under his breath.

“Leave him.” Sarge said as Tucker seemed ready to walk to him. “I’ve seen my fair share of battle strategies gone bad, son. Leave him to sulk.”

Tucker only sighed and rubbed his face. He turned to Wash. “Do you… hell, where are we even? Think we’re gonna make it?”

“Yup.” Grif said with a certainty that was a breath of fresh air amidst all the despair. He had leaned over the railing previously, staring off into the night, and only now came back. He pointed towards the darkness. “I know you guys all have shit vision in the dark, but I can see some lights there just fine. We got a lighthouse maybe two hours away.”

“And with it; assistance.” Wash said. “Grif, would you come with me to the lieutenant-“ _Well, I suppose O’Riley might be acting Captain now,_ he thought grimly, “-to give him the news?” 

O’Riley was, however, way ahead of Wash’s thinking and came stomping towards them with a grim face. Wash only nodded and opened his mouth to issue the good news, but he cut him off;

“Get down in your quarters, now.” It was half-whispered, half-spat, with an urgency that startled Wash and sent his heart beating against his ribcage.

“Why?” He managed to say, eventually.

O’Riley grit his teeth and cast a few glances around him, looking at the crew behind him. “Word will certainly pass about… the Captain’s new condition, and _who_ used the arcane energy to the point where half of our wounded may not survive the night. If you value your _battle mage_ -“ he almost spat the word, “-and yourselves, you will go back to your quarters and lock the door until we have reached Merchant’s Solace.”

“You’re making us prisoners?” Church said, materializing from the left. O’Riley stepped back to get away from him and his hands twitched slightly before he clasped them behind his back.

“You’re lucky I’m not putting you in the brig in chains, mage.” He said coolly.

“He saved _everyone_ ,” Franklin pleaded quietly. “We didn’t mean any harm.”

“It does not matter what you _meant_ , only what you have wrought. By the gods; I have half a mind to let the sharks have you-“ O’Riley said as he turned to Church, “-Scanian-trained mages on _our_ ship? We’ve lost good men to that wretched country.”

“I’m was trained there _before the war_ , for the love of-“ Church stopped to lower his volume, as several crewmembers had turned to look at him. Their cold, angry eyes sent a shiver along Wash’s back and he gently laid a hand on Church’s shoulder.

“We’ll go.”

“Yes, you will. Dismissed.”

O’Riley turned immediately, but stirred slightly as Grif called out,

“There’s light straight ahead, Captain. In the footbank. We’re two hours from either a lighthouse, or a ship.”

O’Riley stopped to mull it over, before he turned to Grif and nodded.

Caboose walked ahead, with Church shielded from view from every sailor who might have a more malicious intent. Once they were inside, without incident, but with plenty of stares, mutterings and spats their direction, Grif latched the door and moved the sea chest to prop the door.

Their light had gone out, and they were left in silence to listen to every crack, creak and groan of the ship. Every small tilt, natural to the sea, made Wash weary and alarmed as if it would signal the ship going down in flames. Every time they turned slightly, he felt it as if though it would tip over. Their room felt smaller by the minute, and he tugged his cloak closer to him in an attempt to lessen the sudden chill that had taken over the room.

“Church!” Simmons whispered.

“Sorry.”

Wash could hear Church shake his head, and the chill disappeared. Had they a light in their room, he would most certainly be pacing around as small snowflakes fell from his cloak without him realizing it.

“Do you think they’ll-“ Doc’s question fell away in a small shudder.

“If the crew wants us dead, there’s no way O’Riley can hold them back. He’s not the most popular lieutenant,” Grif said, mulling it over before he clicked his tongue. “The crew might be busy _now_ , repairing the ship and all. But the second things start to calm down, we better be in Merchant’s Solace. Either that, or we’re taking whatever gear we can get and jump out the freaking window.”

Grif’s second option made the whole Guild protest in a variety of displays, with sputtered questioning noises from some and Sarge’s _‘what in sam hell do you mean by that, son?’_ carrying across the debate.

“Do you really think they’re gonna try to kill us? I _liked_ the crew. I made friends with some of them, even. They’re not all going to just…” Franklin shuddered.

“No, no. That’s not what I mean. I’m just saying that all it takes is a couple of drunk sailors deciding that we’re bad luck or some shit. Some will _definitely_ try to get you, Church, so you’re not moving an inch from this cabin.” Grif sighed. He sounded exhausted.

“Got it.” Church muttered.

“Fuck. So Cap… Niner lost her legs, huh? Fuck, that’s just so…”

“She’s a good woman.” Wash agreed. “It’s a cruel injustice, but at least she’ll live.”

“There’s _no_ way in hell the Admiralty is going to let her keep the ship, though.” Grif argued. “If her left leg’s healed, then maybe, just maybe she might be able to walk around. But captaining a ship? No way. They’re the biggest fucking assholes the Isles have. Hell, we should just jump into the waters now.”

“Are we not _hours_ if not _days_ away from Merchant’s Solace?” Wash said. “What on earth are you suggesting? We don’t have any boats; we will most certainly drown. Or become prey to some monster lurking in the sea.”

“Meh, we’re too close to the Coral Throne for that now. Most sea dragons don’t go near it, in fear of pissing off the sirens.”

Wash blinked and sat up straighter, rummaging in whatever mental folder he had on the sirens. He knew very little of them, as they were of no concern to a man down south in the colder region, where the supposed Queens of the Ocean did not venture.

“…So…” Church hummed. “It’s like their _headquarters_ or something?”

“More like _capitol city_.” Grif corrected. “They’re not exactly savage, man. That’s just some old sailor bullcrap. Most sirens have holdings there.”

“Under… the water?”

Wash very much agreed with Church’s mystified state of mind. Of course, they would need housing of some sort, but he had never considered them to be organized enough to create a supposed underwater metropolis. And just _how_ did that work?

Tucker whistled in amazement. “Huh. That’s pretty awesome.”

“Right.” Grif said noncommittally as he tapped the floor with his foot. “Hold on, you mages can create those little… light balls, right? Can you make them last like half an hour or something?”

“What? Why?” Doc said, completely perplexed.

Somewhere off in the darkness, Wash could hear Grif tear at fabric, perhaps ripping part of his sleeve off for some reason. He furrowed his brow.

“What are you up to, Grif?” He said.

“Calling for backup…ish. If the crew’s gonna come for us, we need help.” Grif responded, which didn’t help with the confusion at all. “Simmons? Can you do it?”

“I…yes, I think so.” He said after a minute. “They take nearly no energy to create, so I can scramble together something if I have to.”

“Back up there, son.” Sarge called sharply. Grif continued with whatever preparations he was doing while Simmons seemingly stopped in his tracks. “One of you will explain what you’re up to.”

Wash could almost see Simmons turn to Grif with a grimace. The latter sighed. “Fine, but we do this _first_ , and then I’ll explain, ok? Just not here, in case someone’s listening in. And I don’t trust you guys to be quiet about it.”

Sarge didn’t seem ready to make any promises, but the silence that followed seemed good enough to Grif as he sighed.

“I’m making an emergency beacon. Kinda. It’s for my sister.”

“Your sist- _sister_?” Tucker said, way too loud to be considered discreet. After being hushed down he continued in a furious whisper, “You have a _sister_? How old is she?”

“…Twenty-something I don’t know, why do y-Oh hell no, Tucker, _now?!_ Don’t even think about it, I’ll put a freaking arrow through your skull-“

“Calm down, both of you.” Simmons sputtered. “Focus! What do you want me to do, Grif?”

“ _You_ make a lightball-floaty-thingie around _this_ fabric. I need something that smells like me-“

“The fuck?” Church muttered.

“-and then I’ll drop it in the ocean. She’ll get it. Or Huggins. One of them will get it.”

“Wait, back up, why is your sister _in the ocean_ -?”

Suddenly, Franklin gasped. Wash could hear him jump up and down and grab at someone’s sleeve. Probably Simmons’s, as the latter muttered ‘ _ow, ow, ow’_ as Franklin continued,

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait! Simmons, when you said that you _met_ one of the Dripfolk ages ago-“

“Here we go.” Grif sighed.

“Oh, by the _gods_ , really?!” Franklin screeched, but hid it behind his hand. He seemed ecstatic about his discovery, whatever it was, and he continued with fervor, “And you stayed on land to be with _Simmons_ , oh my gods that is _so_ romantic, Grif!”

“There’s nothing… romantic about this.” Simmons said with urgency.

“Uh-huh.” Grif muttered. “ _And_ we have always been able to stay on land, ok? Do I look like I have freaking fins? Don’t be so dramatic. There are _plenty_ of people like me on land.”

“Ooooooh!” Doc said suddenly, apparently being able to decipher the complete mystery in the room. Wash felt as if though they were speaking another language entirely. He turned to Tucker, at least where he thought Tucker was, and was hoping that the rogue would somehow figure out that Wash had seen him and needed an explanation. He was terribly lost.

“What the shit?” Tucker cut in instead, an ineloquent but accurate depiction of Wash’s own thoughts. “Can someone explain here?”

“Hold on, let me just get this one down. Simmons, I need light.”

“On it.”

The light popped into existence, and with it, Wash could fully understand the scene. Grif had ripped a piece of fabric from his sleeve, one partially doused in blood, and held it in his hand as Simmons gestured around it to create a light ball. Eventually, the ball turned solid, like glass, with the piece of fabric inside of it. Grif then unceremoniously climbed over and under their gear to get to their window and opened it.

“And off we go.” He muttered as he tossed it in the ocean. He sat there at the edge, as if considering jumping in after it. Then he sighed. “Sooo… can it wait until tomorrow?”

“No!” Franklin almost shrieked.

“Fuck, fine.” Grif groaned. “Let me have it; I’m a freak of nature who can breathe underwater and live with sirens and yada-yada. Just call me a monster and be done with it, honestly. I’ve heard it _all_ before, trust me.”

“ _What?!”_ Church almost shrieked. Wash got slapped by the sleeve of his arm, but it took him a few seconds to realize it. He scooched away a little, bumping into Tucker. The latter jumped slightly and moved away as if burned.

“You’re a _what_ who does _what_ who lives _where_ exactly?” Church yelped then, apparently walking into something. “Fuck, hold on.”

He snapped his fingers, cursed when nothing happened, and then snapped his fingers again. At the fourth try, another ball of light flared into existence. It settled on the floor, rolling around like an orb. Caboose nudged it gently, mildly interested but too shell-shocked to play with it.

They settled around it eventually, like it was a campfire, but they were all restless and jumpy. The noises from the ship went from quiet to deafening, where every slam of a hammer repairing the ship made them all jump, as if it was someone outside their door waiting to kill them.

Wash found himself just blinking as he stared, awkwardly and horribly impolite, at Grif, as if he could manifest his confused thoughts and questions telepathically. He had no idea of what Grif could be referring to, nor did he know of any humanoid underwater creatures _besides_ the sirens. At least, not ones he could come up with at the moment, not too surprisingly; given the overwhelmingly confusion.

“So, when you say _underwater-breathing-freak-whatever_ -“ Tucker looked to Grif. “What’s that?”

Grif chuckled humorlessly and rubbed his neck awkwardly. “Yeah, uh. It’s Dripfolk. I’m a Dripfolk. Remember when we were headed to Nochkit, the first night? You guys were away with Niner and we were down in the gunroom with the crew? We talked about some-“

“Right. The Siren slaves or something like that?”

Grif shook his head. “Not slaves. That’s just some bullshit the Admiralty pulled so that everyone’ll be scared of the sirens. We’re just…” He trailed off, biting his lip. “Regular people who can kinda breathe underwater and stuff.”

 _And stuff_ , Wash couldn’t help but huff. It was, somehow, very Grif to give such a broad, short statement that did nothing to explain anything whatsoever.

“Some of us were lost at sea,” Grif continued with a shrug of his shoulders. “-and the sirens took us in, but most of us were drowned on purpose by the Admiralty-“

“What?” Church said. “Why the hell would they do that? Who leads the Admiralty? Is it still Doyle?”

“Uh, no clue? I’m exactly the type of citizen who hung out with them. We were poor -well, I guess I don’t make a fuckton of money _now_ and Kai’s down under, but we were barely hanging on before… yeah, before the whole Dripfolk thing.”

“But why did th-“ Church stopped, mulling things over. “Was it a punishment? Instead of the gallows or the executioner’s block?”

“Crowd control.” Grif said coolly. “One way to try to control the _pesky_ low-lives that infests the city and ruins it for all the nice, rich people. Out of sight, out of mind. Literally. And then the Admiralty tries to pretend like it’s the sirens that snatch people up from beaches and force them into slavery. It’s all bullshit. I’m not gonna explain everything right now, alright? It’s already… like _this whole day_ has been way too much.”

“Fuck, man.” Tucker huffed. ”But how did you-? Like can you actually breathe underwater?”

Grif just shrugged. “Sure. Sirens have some kind of innate, archaic magic left from the gods that we humans don’t get. They can kinda… _grant_ people some abilities like that. Living underwater, swimming really fast, nightvision yada-yada-yada.”

“Like an ugly, tan man-dolphin.” Sarge said, nodding for himself. “That explains how the hell you move around like your ass is on fire in the water, even though you’re a lazy bastard.”

Grif snorted. “Yeah, sorry Sarge. You got stuck with the freak-side of the Reds and Blues. Woo-hoo.”

Franklin clapped his hands together with a triumphant gasp. Wash couldn’t hear Grif as much as he could see his frustrated ‘ _oh no_ ’. “Grif! Grif! You can see in the dark? Like _really_ dark, right? I was losing my _mind_ over that. Like you would charge headfirst at anything in complete darkness and I was like ‘wow, someone’s eating a lot of carrots’-“

“What does _that_ have to do with anything?”

“-But you can see, right?”

Grif shuffled away from Franklin, clearly uncomfortable. “Kinda. I guess. We wouldn’t be able to live on the seabed if we didn’t.”

“Hang on.” Church’s brow furrowed. “Like _all_ the way down? Shouldn’t the pressure just pop your heads open?”

“Wow, Church. I needed that image, thank you.” Tucker added with a glare and a yelp as Church gave his shins a lazy kick.

Again, which seemed to be his thing by now, Grif just shrugged.

“Magic?” He tried.

“You can’t just say _magi-_ “ Church stopped there. Wash smiled slightly. It would’ve been an ironic thing for a mage to argue.

“So…” Tucker said. “Simmons starts explosions by sneezing, Church just turned a giant dragon into an icicle and Doc sniffs herbs; what else is new. Congratulations, you fit in with the weird crowd.”

Wash huffed. _Bless this man and his divine ability of nonchalance_. 

The corners of Grif’s mouth twitched, and he nudged Tucker’s side. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, I guess.”

“I _am_ serious though; this isn’t all that weird. We’ve all heard of sirens and the…”

“Dripfolk.”

“Yeah, that. We’ve all heard it before, so it’s not _otherworldly_.” Tucker’s eyes glittered mischievously and he went on, “It’s not, _y’know_ , snapping your fingers and bringing a dead dog back to life.”

“Oh, shut up.” Simmons groaned.

“So, your sister is like you?” Doc said. He looked out the window, as if he would see a shoal of sirens pop up in the waters. “Is she in the… Coral Throne or what it was called?”

“A few hours outside of it, yeah.”

Wash blinked. The reveal of Grif’s Dripfolk-heritage and the alarming news of the leaders of the Egeniella Island had thrown him for enough of a loop that he had forgotten the urgency and the reason for _why_ Grif was trying to contact his sister.

He turned to look at the door, but it had remained blissfully quiet. He could hear the commotion of the crew trying to fix their ship, the lieutenants yell orders and the bosun’s call piercing whistle, but it had, for just a moment, been a distant thing to them. But now it came back in full force, and he felt his heart beat a little bit faster. He tried to shake it off. It wouldn’t do them any good if he was just worried. He could prepare as best as he could, trying to figure out the possible outcomes, but nothing good would come of him sitting down and running his fingers through his hair nervously.

 _It has grown a bit, again_ , his brain registered the thought mechanically, and he almost laughed at it in absurdity. Of all the things his mind tried to focus on, it somehow decided to anchor itself in how his hair had grown a bit from its regular, short and shaved state.

Franklin tapped his fingers on the floor. “Soooooo… how do you talk underwater?”

Grif signed something at him with a small smile.

“Really?” Franklin clapped his fingers together. “Oh, can you teach me?”

“Eh, if you want.” Grif said noncommittally.

Franklin did, in fact, very much want to learn and grabbed the majority of Grif’s attention, effectively barring the rest of them from continuing to grill the man on the new discovery. Wash settled to sit near the window, gazing out into the vast darkness outside. Some natural light trickled into their room however, and Wash stared quite baffled at the sunrise as he tried to figure out how a whole night had already passed. He felt exhausted suddenly, and his whole body seemed to ache. He let his hand graze the back of his knees, remembering the injury he had received when the sea dragon’s head had burst into a thousand sharp icicles. The spot wasn’t wet anymore, and the pain felt dull, barely even throbbing. He tried to remind himself to check his injuries when he wasn’t so tired. If Church’s magic had taken most of the energy and none was left for healing, he couldn’t afford to leave it be and let it get infected.

“Grif,” He said suddenly, and remembered how Grif’s back had suffered many splinters. “How are your injuries?”

“Oh,” Grif said. He blinked and twisted as if to look at his own back, but yelped in pain and grimaced. “Fuck, dumb idea.”

“Right, guess your underwater thing doesn’t give you natural healing, unlike _some_.” Church said, oddly cryptic, rubbed his face and fought off a yawn. He turned to their sea chest and rummaged through to find his tools. “Doc, get over here.”

“I’m fine.” Grif said as he tried to shimmy away from Doc.

“Don’t be stupid.” Doc said, surprisingly sharp. He flushed. “Sorry, that was a bit aggressive. But we need to check every injury for infections. If we leave splinters in, they can mess up your back pretty bad.”

“Phelee’s breath, I can live with it for a few hours, just leave it.”

He glared at Church as the latter came up to him and laid out his tools, including a vicious-looking tong that made Grif blanch slightly.

“Turn around and get rid of your shirt.”

“Buy me dinner first, Church.” Grif rolled his eyes and tried to remove his shirt, but stopped with a sharp intake of breath when the fabric got stuck and ripped at some of the splinters.

Wash, with a surprisingly macabre and brutal interest, moved to better see the injuries. It was difficult to see when he had his loose sailor shirt on, but now as he tried to tug it away, his whole back suffered injuries. Some splinters were thin and short, half the length of his pinky, but some gruesome pieces of wood, the size of his hand, stuck out from his back like ghastly thorns.

“It’s not that bad.” Grif said, and Wash flushed when he realized that the other man had caught him staring.

“My apologies.” He said. “Can we assist you in any way?”

Grif just rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt unless I move. We can wait for the energy to come back and heal- _ow_!”

He yelped and turned to glare at Church as he pulled out one of the smaller splinters with the tong. Church met his glare with equal ferocity.

“Sit still.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“ _Will you just_ …” Church growled. He moved to another splinter and continued, quietly, “This whole thing is _my fault_ so just let me try to get some things right.”

That made Grif sit still, and he only winced as Church pulled out the splinters and Doc put some poultice and dressings on the wounds. He rolled his eyes with a small smile.

“You are so dramatic.” He said to Church, who just muttered something and continued to work.

Tucker huffed and came to stand at the window, looking out. But his eyes were downcast, and his brow furrowed when he saw the dried blood on Wash’s trousers.

“I’m fine.” Wash said uselessly, as Tucker just ignored him and moved closer.

“What’s this?”

“It’s-“ Wash cast a nervous glance at Church. It seemed cruel to make the source if the injury known when the mage seemed to be struggling with guilt already. “It’s not splinters. I think I scraped myself. I’ll let the others check, but I barely noticed it until now.”

“So, Wash is next in line.” Doc noted to himself as he dressed another wound. He fought a yawn. “Right, right. Gods, it’s been a long day.”

“It has indeed.” Wash nodded. He leaned back to look out the window, but caught Tucker peering out through it as if he had found something. “Is it-“

“No, it’s another ship.” Tucker said. “Maybe O’Riley’s clever enough to flag them down and ask for help.”

“Let me see.” Grif moved up to them, his back bandaged and his shirt back on.

It was another three-masted ship, but it was to far away for Wash to see if it was another spiked warship just like their own. Their sails stuck out quite a bit with their orange color and a central symbol on all of them, though it was too far away for Wash to see. But it was heading their way, and it seemed to be gaining on them.

“Is it another Egeniellan ship?” Wash turned to Grif, who looked worryingly serious.

“Can’t see yet.” He said, and they let it be for a while, waiting for the ship to gain on them so that they could inspect it more clearly.

Wash’s own injuries were bandaged and taken care of, much shallower than Grif’s own, but the leg felt oddly stiff and difficult to move, and he moved with a slight, undignified limp as he shuffled to the window once more.

“This isn’t good.” Grif said as Wash opened his mouth to ask him for his expertise. Everyone in the room turned to him then, and everyone scrambled to look out the window to look at it.

“Is it not an Egeniellan ship?” Wash asked.

“It’s a first-rate, one of the biggest warships ever. But it’s not our Navy at all. I have no fucking clue what they’re doing in our waters, but it doesn’t look good.” Grif said grimly.

“Scanians?” Doc turned to Church. “Do you know how the Scanian ships look like?”

“Not like that,” Church said, and Wash felt himself release a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

“Huh,” Sarge said then. “We’ve seen that before. That symbol.”

Wash turned to him with a confused look before he turned to the ship to try to decipher what he meant. It was the sails that had a strange symbol on them. It was still difficult to make out all of it, but the general shape was starting to take hold. Not unlike an arrow, with the tip pointing north and the middle hollowed out.

“Oh gods.” It dawned on Wash then. “When we were attacked. On our way back from Ivory Tower.”

“We have to tell O’Riley. Or the Captain, if she has woken up.” Grif said. He turned to the door. “I’ll go.”

“What?” Simmons grabbed his arm. “Now? When everyone’s angry and restless? Is that wise? You can get killed!”

“Yeah well, if _that ship_ is from the same group as the ones from before something’s up.” Grif retorted. “The crew liked me; I’ll be alright.”

“Take Caboose with you, at least!”

Caboose turned to look between Church and Simmons. “But where they not bad men who didn’t like Church? I don’t want them to hurt Church.”

“Oh, I’ll go.” Sarge said gruffly. He double-checked that his sword laid in its sheath and he nodded towards Grif. “For once you’re actually doing something, dirtbag. I ain’t about to be outdone by you!”

Grif looked _very_ skeptical. “Just don’t stab me in the back, Sarge.”

“Nonsense, soldier.” Sarge said as Grif opened the door. “I’d stab you in the front.”

The rest of the team turned to look out the window again. It was alarming how slow their own ship was going in comparison to the other one, and with every second they gained they could see how much bigger the other ship was. Should they need to escape or, gods forbid, try to battle them, the Manu Wai would most surely be on the losing side. They had little resources left, and with their Captain unable to lead it would certainly lead to their doom.

He drummed his fingers on his bandaged knee. The mysterious group that had attacked them had been far too organized to be just a random band of bandits preying on people on the road. They had all worn that symbol on their breast, and seemed to have been expecting them. The Guild had left said symbols in the hand of the Delta, and the prince had certainly been able to figure out something more about them, given his intellect, but they had no access to that knowledge themselves.

And if they had _their own ship_ … A new army? A conscripted band from Scania from the north who had joined the battle to attack Potentia from another angle? But why would a group of them be found randomly in the Oakpalace woods? Was it connected to the war? The curse? Something Wash hadn’t considered?

He was so caught in his own thoughts that it took Wash a while to realize that Tucker had tried to get his attention.

“Take this,” he said as he gave Wash a spyglass. “I can’t figure anything out, but-“

“Thank you.” Wash said and he peered into it. They were closing in enough that he was now able to see parts of the crew onboard. The crew seemed to run around in preparation, and Wash felt his heart beat even faster. They were surely preparing to attack. But _why_? Who _were_ they?

Then he almost dropped the spyglass as a man caught his eye.

Few men had that stature, and even though the ship was far away, he could clearly see how the man towered over everyone else around him. He stood at the bow of the ship, a golden helmet tucked beneath his arm and his white-painted armor catching the morning sun. Wash’s mind was flooded with memories, with anger and confusion.

How? _How_?

“I don’t believe it.” He said, so shocked it was little more than a whisper.

“What?” Tucker said, trying to peer at the ship without the spyglass. “What is it?”

“It’s the Meta.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch me dust off Recollection villains cause 'yes' I love them and 'yes' I intend to use many, many of the show's villains throughout this whole thing.


	41. How Sigma makes a distraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School is back, and so is my posting schedule.  
> Stay safe!

** 3,5 years ago **

** Kingslight, the Tower of Thought **

“We’ll be fine.” York said, kissing her on the head.

She was restless, more so than what she usually was, with a nervous shake of her legs that made it nearly impossible for him to rest his chin on her head. She didn’t seem to notice it, and only stared out over the inner bailey.

The Sigma was going to be executed.

The Sigma, the Alpha and the King had been at each other’s throats for more than twenty years at this point. York had often wondered if their constant plotting and fighting would eventually lead to something as drastic as this. He knew the Sigma didn’t think that the Alpha deserved the throne, as he so often said so in front of as many people as possible, and that he was the much better match. He would claim that his older brother and his father were plotting things around his back, that they were vicious and cruel and not worthy of carrying on the family name. Many a times Maine had tried, in his quiet, growling way to stop Sigma for testing the King’s patience further, but it had little effect.

After Queen Omari’s death, their relationships went from biting quips and reprimands to a hostility that made York shiver whenever he came across it. The Queen’s death had taken its toll on the country, on the Keep and definitely on the royal family. With the Potentian Curse, the King became less and less patient with his son, and yet the Sigma was persistent. Now that _the Alpha_ was gone as well, who else could possibly lead? Sigma seemed to take the destruction and chaos as an opportunity to try to convince the King that he should abdicate and rest. The King responded with having him arrested in secret, and now he was awaiting execution.

York didn’t realize he had twisted a lock of Carolina’s hair around his finger until she twitched with an ‘ow’ and he mumbled an apology.

They were waiting in the Tower of Thought, where the prince himself had been placed in the very top room. Whether the King was going to bring the axeman and block to the prince or if he was to be transported somewhere else, he had little idea. But every Freelancer was currently stationed somewhere near the tower. Maine, after having losing his ward, could be found pacing back and forth in the other chamber from where York and Carolina stood.

He had quietly accepted the death of Sigma, but it was no doubt a horrid affair for someone who’s entire professional life had been dedicated to guard him. The King had placed him far away from the stairs, to more or less just endure the proceedings and be nowhere near the Sigma when the event was about to take place.

“I both pity him and I don’t.” York admitted as he followed Maine with his gaze. On occasion, the other Freelancer would pass the large double doors to their room and make himself known. He was dressed for war, a ceremonial armor in gold and white, and every time he moved the armor would clink and echo across the two rooms.

“I don’t pity someone who has to watch Sigma.” Carolina said as well. “But if someone tried to hurt the Iota and the Eta-“

“Good thing they’re not raging psychopaths.” He tried to stop her line of thinking there. She had already started to look at her wards like her younger siblings, with a protective streak both impressive and over-shadowing. Prince Emiyn seemed quite pleased to have someone to indulge his neurotic worries, but prince Irving would climb up the walls in order to get away, and would only roll his eyes whenever Carolina had tried to warn him about the dangers of society.

York never realized how lucky he was to have been placed in the Delta’s service. The man had a laconic charm to him that York had become strangely fond of. Then it clicked in place what Carolina might have meant with her comment. He waited until the sounds of Maine’s armor indicated that he was further away from them.

“You think he’s gonna try something?” He whispered.

“I don’t know. But I’m keeping an eye on him. For now.” She admitted, biting her lip and tapping her foot impatiently.

The main door opened, and the pair turned to it, expecting to see the glint of an axe poking through it. York quickly let go of Carolina’s hair and she stepped away from him, trying to seem more professional. They were not discreet enough to pretend that they were not involved, especially not to the rest of the Freelancers, but they were both not comfortable with showing unnecessary actions of affection in front of others regardless.

York’s shoulders relaxed slightly when a familiar, shaven head poked through.

“What are you doing, rookie?” Carolina sighed. “Do they need us out there?”

Washington settled her with a small glare. While he was the newest addition to the Freelancers, he had been in the Epsilon’s service long enough to not be deemed a rookie anymore. Carolina knew it, and yet the nickname had stuck.

“We’re still waiting,” Said Washington as he closed the door. He turned to look at the pacing Maine before continuing to the two of them. “I haven’t seen the King in hours, and the Epsilon has been sent to bed with a set of guards. I was going to see if you need assistance with anything here, but I see you are without something to do.”

“We’re all just waiting, yeah.” York rolled his shoulders and looked at him.

Washington seemed determined to seem unperturbed and stoic, but his fingers twitched and he let his hand run across his scalp many times, his eyes never focusing on one spot. York didn’t mind him, really, but the kid would put up walls of _proper nobility and honor_ that echoed his father to the point where it was ridiculous. He’d seen Washington slip on occasion, smiling here and there and he even managed to get a snort out of him before the kid tried to hide it with a cough. But that was as far as York had managed to get him to relax. Hells, trying to get him to go for a drink with him and North had, so far, been impossible. Carolina had certainly not seen the charm in their newest recruit, and saw through the barrier he tried to uphold easily. It rubbed her the wrong way.

Again, York didn’t mind him too much. Washington was probably just nervous. He’d learn how to behave like a normal human being eventually.

It was an odd thing, to wait for the execution of a prince, and while they were perhaps not expecting trouble, none of them could relax until the business was done. And the business had been long and drawn out, with them having little idea on how it was going to take place.

Then the door opened once more, and a tall, blonde woman with her hair in a ponytail walked in, sure-footed and serious.

 _Oh great,_ York thought with a painful smile as he felt Carolina stiffen.

“York, Carolina!” Tex nodded towards them. “We’re going to be upstairs for the whole thing. Washington, you’re down here with Maine. Let’s go.”

It was an order, little doubt about it, and York could see Carolina’s hand twitch and her lips turned into a fine line. The two of them never seemed to get along, both seem used to giving orders and were certainly not inclined to take them.

Wash on the other hand nodded, but paled slightly as the axeman came through after her, his hood already on.

“I guess this is it, then.” York cast an eye at the other room where Maine was pacing, but the man didn’t seem to have noticed the commotion.

Tex didn’t wait for anyone, and walked with large strides to get up to the stairs. Carolina bristled and took off after her, leaving York - _thank you, Lina_ \- to walk the stairs with the axeman behind him. York turned and nodded towards Washington, who sent nervous glances at the room Maine was in, before he nodded to him too and headed in to Maine.

He reached the locked door to the top room eventually, and just sighed when he saw that the two women were both standing at the top, refusing to speak to each other.

“Took you long enough.” Tex said. “Let’s get this over with.”

She fished the key out of her pocket, but Carolina took it from her and opened the door to lead them in. Tex settled her with a small glare and a roll of her eyes. Then she stopped abruptly, frozen in place.

“Good evening, ladies.” Said the Sigma behind the door, sickly sweet and calm in a way that always made York shudder. But now it made his heart race a little. What had he done?

He took two steps at a time to get to Tex, and almost barreled past her to get into the room and see where Carolina was.

Where is she? What has he done?

He burst into the room and blinked. The window was open, the moonlight trickling into the room. But it didn’t explain the beams shooting across the room. They went across the whole space, bouncing off small crystals embedded in the walls. A chalked column, filled with complicated lines and number, had been drawn around the room in a circle. And in the middle, behind a beam that went to the dead center of the weird shape, sat the Sigma, cross-legged and smiling.

“What the hell is this?” Carolina said, from York’s right side. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t mind me, my dear.” He smiled and gestured around the room. “I’ve had some time to think, and ponder, and wonder all about this lovely little curse. It’s quite cute, actually. And it has a very convenient, very explosive after-effect that I fully intend to use. But I won’t trouble your pretty little heads with it, don’t worry.”

York looked to Carolina, and then to Tex, hoping one of them would recognize what the weird beam-structure was. Could he pass through it or would it burn him? Is it magic? A trick of the light?

He stood still instead, hand on the hilt of his sword.

He’s up to something. Washington has to know.

York turned to the axeman to give him orders, to tell him to go down and tell him to warn the others. But he froze.

The axeman stood quietly, his mouth and eyes open in shock. With the tip of a sword shooting through his mouth, spilling blood down his front. Then the sword was pulled back, the axeman fell, and behind him stood Maine, helmeted and terrifying with his two-handed sword covered in blood.

“Out of my way,” He growled.

 _Oh hells,_ York thought grimly. _Time to die, then_.

“What the hell are you doing, Maine?” York tried, backing up slightly as the much larger man advanced on him. His heart started beating fast against his ribcage. “What did you do to Washington?”

Maine didn’t respond, but York hoped with all of his heart that it was just the axeman’s blood that painted his sword.

The distinct sound of two swords leaving their scabbards echoed in the room as Carolina unsheathed hers and crossed the room within the blink of an eye, one smallblade at the neck of Sigma. The royal seemed completely unperturbed, but Maine shifted and growled at her.

“Not one move, Maine.” Carolina seethed. “Or I’ll slit his throat.”

“How rude.” Sigma said, still smiling. “Maine, dearest, put your sword down. We’re not here to hurt anyone, it’s a messy business.”

Maine looked to his ward before he slowly set his sword down. His face was completely hidden by the helmet, but York could almost feel the man’s eye burn into his soul. He stood still, ready for anything.

His hands felt clammy and his breath short. Maine was a brutal, almost otherworldly strong man, and not someone he believed he could take on without the element of surprise. Even with both Tex and Carolina there, both the very best Freelancers they had, it would prove difficult to walk out of a fight with Maine without injuries or death. And with whatever Sigma had up his sleeves, what that weird light structure was, York didn’t fancy his chances.

He turned to look at Tex, whose eyes were focused on Maine.

“I can assure you,” Sigma continued. “That this little lightshow is not out to hurt any of you.”

“Bullshit.” Tex said. “What the hell is it?”

Sigma huffed. “Such language, Tex. I had expected more from a lady like you.”

“Shut up. Answer my question.”

Sigma raised his hands to gesture at the room, but stopped halfway as Carolina’s smallblade dug into his neck. A small trickle of blood escaped. Maine growled and moved to intervene, but Carolina shuffled back with the prince in a firm grip.

“It’s quite cruel to be forced to regale you all with a tale of my ingenuity if I can’t even move my hands, dear.” He said, tut-tutting.

“You’ll live.” Carolina said, before cunningly adding, “Well, maybe.”

“Ugh, you are such spoilsports.” Sigma only rolled his eyes. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is a trigger for the Potentian Curse. An interesting little thing, and no small feat. It must’ve cost the crown quite the fortune, indeed.”

York blinked. A headache formed in his head, and the Sigma’s words became muffled and strange. He could hear him talk, but it didn’t register and stick in his mind, like a fleeting memory he couldn’t quite grasp.

Sigma talked for a few more seconds, but stopped with a wince of his head. “Oh, I suppose that’s too much for me even. Interesting curse this one. Did you know it actively erases the memory if you get too close to figure out what it’s trying to repress? It’s been a very interesting time in this cell, let me tell you that. But it seems I must stop there; I wouldn’t want to suffer through a migraine.”

York felt weirdly weak, and he shook his head to try and remain focused.

 _What does he mean? What does he know about the curse? How is the curse done? How_ \- A sharp pain hit him in the skull, and for a second, he was convinced that Maine had run his sword through his head.

He blinked, at tried to recall what the Sigma had been talking about, but his mind seemed worryingly blank. _Wait, what were those light beams again?_

“Yes, just like that.” Sigma said smugly as he looked at him. “Sorry, I just _don’t_ have the time to figure out how much I can tell you before the curse wipes your memory of it. You’ll just have to trust me. But, do please do me the favor of stepping away from the spell I’ve made. Yes, that one in chalk. Wouldn’t want to tear the castle apart, now.” He smiled politely, as if gently informing someone they had stepped on his cloak.

York looked down at the chalked line, _a spell then_ , and took a step further into the room to avoid it. He heard Tex shuffle away from it a well.

Sigma clasped his hands together. “Wonderful. Maine, if you would.”

Maine didn’t move at first, but his gloved hand twitched, and it took York far too long to realize that he held something in his fist. York moved to grab it from him, but the man dropped it in front of him.

It was a small orb, almost like a dark pearl. York blinked, but ducked to try to grab it as Tex moved to grab Maine. But it rolled away from him. Sigma was on the move suddenly, elbowing Carolina in the gut and twisting away from her knives, but not before receiving a nasty cut on his throat.

He pushed her away further, and Carolina vaulted away and stood at the ready a few meters away, he knives at the ready and eyes darting around the room.

 _Where did the damn thing go?_ York looked around as well, and caught it in his peripheral as it rolled towards Sigma and finally stopped when he put his finger on it.

The whole room froze, as if it was a bomb ready to explode at any second.

“You might want to duck.” Sigma smiled as he rolled the marble in the middle of the room, centering it so that the last light beam hit it perfectly.

York felt a surge of… something. The very air seemed to pull and push towards the center of the room, and the marble lit up and cracked. A deafening noise hit his ear, and before he had had time to blink, he was flung across the room by an unknown force.

He heard the crack of his head hitting the walls before it all turned dark.


	42. Berserker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The posting schedule held for ONE week, lol. That's what happens when you move. 
> 
> We're back to the present, back to the threat of the Meta. RIP the Reds and Blues!

** The Siren Sea **

** Manu Wai **

“The Meta?” Tucker said.

“One of my old Freelancer colleagues. The one who…” Wash bit his lip. He could feel a twinge of pain from that night, where Maine had hit him on the back of the head and knocked him unconscious before heading up to rescue Sigma. It wasn’t common knowledge that the prince was to be executed, so Wash stumbled with his words for a few seconds. “…The one who killed Carolina.”

Church looked up to him with a raised eyebrow. Wash cursed inwardly. He had relations with Tex, so naturally, he had a more intimate knowledge of the Freelancers than anyone else in the Guild probably did. He didn’t protest though, only looked at him curiously.

“Who?” Tucker said. He had nicked the spyglass from Wash now, and looked at the Meta through it. “Shit, that guy’s huge. Hey, Caboose, you have a run for your money.”

“Money does not _run_.” Caboose muttered.

“Our… we didn’t truly have a leader, not officially, but Carolina led the team regardless-“

“Don’t let Tex hear you say that.” Church said.

Wash looked at him with mounting irritation. Since Tex and Carolina didn’t get along, he understood that Tex had perhaps not given Church the best picture of their former leader. But she had _died,_ and Wash had little patience for jokes.

“Why did he kill her? Didn’t you all work for the King?”

“We do. We… had a mission that Maine disagreed with, and he ensured that we couldn’t finish our mission. She was killed in action.” Wash hadn’t seen it happen, as he had been knocked out cold by Maine, but he remembered the commotion afterwards. He had woken up as he heard Tex and York argue about something as they ran down the stairs. Tex ran past him where he laid, carrying someone in her arms. But York had stopped, the only one noticing him, and ran to him to help him.

He had never seen York so shocked and upset. His words were a jumbling mess of ‘are you alright?’ ‘did you see Maine and Sigma’ and another mess of words containing the words _curse_ and _explosions_ that hade made Wash’s head hurt.

He had asked her about Carolina, and York had looked away. And that was all he could ever get from York about it.

Naturally, the incident led to a number of investigations, and York and Tex had certainly been grilled to death about it. Rumors and whispers of Carolina’s certain demise grew without Tex and York neither confirming nor denying it. But the dark look on York’s face was enough for Wash to know that it was not a subject to be broached. And certainly not to find so amusing.

But Church only looked curios, and when he opened his mouth it wasn’t to issue an apology or to further ask about the mission, but only to ask,

“Are you sure she’s dead?”

Wash huffed in shock. _The nerve_. “I will let that be, since you were not there, Church. But this is not something to find entertaining or intriguing. It is not a theory for you to conspire about. I hope you haven’t bothered Tex or York about this.”

“Perish the thought.” Church said, noncommittally. He stared out the window. “There’s no way in hell we’re gonna survive if they attack.”

“Pretty sure O’Riley knows that too, man.” Tucker said. “So, how the hell are we gonna make sure that we _do_ survive? I don’t want to die out at sea. The sea sucks.”

Church rolled his eyes, but his jaw was set and his eyes hard as he looked out towards the other ship. “So, we have the Meta here then. Think he’s figure out we’re here too?”

“Does it matter?” Tucker’s brow furrowed. “Did you piss him off or something? Is he gonna come for you too?”

“Let’s fucking hope not.” Church said flatly. “Let’s _really_ fucking hope not. Maine was freaking terrifying before he got sacked. I don’t wanna die at the hands of _that_.”

“I will not let you die, Church.” Caboose pointed out, as if the very idea was absurd. Church snorted but nudged Caboose with his foot in a small, very rare, show of affection.

“Yeah, thanks, kid. And _no_ , I didn’t piss him off… I think. But he’s sure as hell gonna recognize you.” Church nodded towards Wash. His only response was a grim nod. 

“Think Grif’s convinced O’Riley to be smart about this? I don’t think _the good lieutenant_ is going to listen to us.”

“Perhaps not.” Wash agreed. “Our best course of action would be that we pass them by without provoking an attack, or that they stop to help us, and the Meta remains unaware of our presence.”

“Unless he knows we’re here and is just waiting for an opportunity to attack.” Church countered. “Which means we should, at the very least, be ready to fight.”

“Be ready to _die_ , you mean.” Tucker said grimly. “This ship’s not gonna make it. I give it a good five cannonballs before it sinks to the bottom of the ocean.”

“There’s not enough magic in the air for them to use their cannons either. _And_ Grif claimed he was calling for backup.” Franklin pointed out, the optimistic opinion a fresh air amidst the despair and grim thoughts in the room. “Maybe they can help us. We shouldn’t lose hope _juuuust_ yet.”

“They better bring a fucking army, then.” Tucker muttered. “So, what do we want to do? Wait here in a circle jerk or actually get up on deck to try to do something?”

Wash sputtered. “I _beg_ your pardon-“

“Well, _I’m_ in house arrest. Room arrest, whatever.” Church crossed his arms. “So have fun, I’ll just sit here and wait to be killed.”

“So, we wait, then.” Wash said as Tucker turned to the door. “We do not want to provoke a reaction from the crew. We trusted Grif and Sarge to tell O’Riley of our findings, let us trust them.”

Tucker scoffed. “You know we’re in deep shit when _Wash_ tells _me_ to trust the Guild.”

“Second that.”

Wash’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing, not a damn thing.”

\---------------

“A former Freelancer?” O’Riley didn’t even bother to look at Grif. He was still staring down the ship coming towards them.

Grif had to give it to him, he was clever enough to not trust the other ship. As Grif and Sarge had come up to him to tell him of the Meta -even though he could only really tell him _he’s a bad guy I don’t know but Wash knows him_ \- O’Riley had already told the Captain of the Marines to hide archers in the tops, covered by sailcloth, ready for battle. The lack of arcane energy affected their own cannons, and made them pretty much useless, but the same could be said for the other ship as well. Did they intend to attack, they needed to come close and board them. And O’Riley was stubborn enough to not give in immediately, but had not himself tried to attack.

The ship came closer, and their own crew seemed to prepare for the potential battle as well, but so far the Captain hadn’t ordered them to beat to quarters. The first-rate was much larger than their own vessel, and sported _three_ gundecks in comparison to their one. It wasn’t spiked however, but that was the only advantage the Manu Wai could even pretend to entertain. But the first-rate didn’t attack. They both waited, and considered.

“Jack.” The third lieutenant, John Storm, came up to where they stood near the rambles of the aftercastle. It was as close as they could stand near the stern of the ship without risking to injure themselves on the destroyed end of their ship.

O’Riley’s hands twitched where they were grasped behind his back. “I will not remind you again to keep proper conduct, _Storm_.”

Storm looked like he fought back the urge to roll his eyes and sigh. “We should be prepared to strike, _sir_.”

Sarge sputtered. “We’re a sneeze away from sinking to the bottom of the ocean, and you wish to _fight_?”

“He means to strike the colors, Sarge.” Grif said quietly. “To run up a white flag from our mast. It means to give up.”

 _Give up_ , was apparently the wrong thing to say, as O’Riley turned to look at him with hard eyes. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t seem ready to admit defeat just yet.

“We are not striking,” He said coldly. “Bring me the speaking trumpet.”

Storm stood still for a moment before he touched his hat and went down the deck to get the Captain’s gear.

“So,” O’Riley said again. “By _former Freelancer_ there can only be two. Since we are harboring one, I can only assume that one would be the Meta.”

“You know him?” Grif’s brow furrowed.

“My family is part of House Wyoming, second cousins to the current leaders.” He said as he looked through his looking glass. “I don’t know what the Meta has done, but I know of the repercussions afterwards. He’s no longer a member of House Maine, and has turned against the crown.”

Grif grimaced. “You’re related to _that_ asshole?” _Why did I say that out loud? I hate my mouth._

O’Riley turned to look at him, terribly affronted. But he blinked away the anger as Storm came up to him with the speaking trumpet.

“Will you, at least, indulge me and tell me what you are planning on doing, _sir_? We cannot take on a first-rate, even with our full crew.”

“I am not planning anything yet. They decide what happens next.”

And so they waited. Eventually the ship came close enough for speaking range, and the Captain of the other ship brought forth his speaking trumpet as well.

“Men of the _Manu Wai_!” He cried. “We bring you greetings! What ails you?”

“Don’t trust them,” Grif whispered to O’Riley as he brought up his own trumpet. “Something’s up.”

“Hail!” O’Riley replied, cold but professional. “Sea dragons. Should you wish to assist, you can send flares to signal the nearest lighthouse that we need aid. But be warned, you are in Potentian waters, and with a ship of His Majesty’s Navy.”

“What are you doing?” Storm whispered furiously. “Why are you antagonizing them?”

“I aim to let them know that we are not ignorant of their trespassing on our waters.” O’Riley said. “Should they attack _us_ , they attack our Navy, and all of Potentia. Few would wish to provoke it.”

“Right, but the guy who turned his back on the crown would _probably_ take the risk anyway.” Grif pointed out. Storm turned to him, eyebrows raised.

“Who?” He asked.

“They have a former Freelancer onboard,” O’Riley said coolly. “A traitor to our nation. And a fool if he thinks an attack on the Manu Wai would pass by the Admiralty’s nose unnoticed.”

“Fantastic.” Storm muttered.

The Captain of the first-rate brought the speaking trumpet to their lips. “You have little to bargain with, Captain. We offer no aid, and unfortunately for you; we were on the hunt. We wish you the best, Manu Wai, and may the sea be a fitting grave for you!”

Grif’s heart started racing. So, they _were_ looking for them, and had little intention of taking prisoners. Grif sprinted down the deck with Sarge in tow as O’Riley screamed,

“Prepare to repel boarders! All able-bodied men must fight!”

“You heard the man,” cried the bosun as she ordered the crew around to take arms. “They’ve no intention of letting us live! Every man will fight, and may the gods reward us in the next life!”

Grif rammed several sailors as he tried to get to the railings. His mind was racing. The first-rate wouldn’t even take prisoners, but aimed to sink them completely and kill everyone on board. He _had_ to get a message to Kai or Huggins or just anyone who would listen. There was no way in hell they would survive the other ship. First-rates had a crew of over 800, more than 300 over their own regular numbers, and a ship without any damages done to it. One ramming with the prow and they would be done, even if their spikes could perhaps damage their gundecks somewhat.

“Sarge, tell the others what’s happening!” He yelled back. “I have to do something!”

“What in sam hell, soldier?” Sarge was on his way down below deck, but stopped in his tracks. “What are you doing?”

“Something really, _really_ fucking desperate!” Grif responded before he ran towards the railings, stepped up on the side of the ship and dove into the water.

\-----------------

“You heard the lieutenant!” Wash said as he gathered his gear from their belongings. “Any able-bodied person who can fight must get to the deck! Church, Simmons, do you know how to fight without your magic?”

“Good enough.” Church said, and to his surprise he twisted the top of his battle mage staff and procured a rapier from inside of it. The decorated top of the staff had, apparently, been the decorated, sweeping hilt of the weapon.

“Yeah, and when was the last time _that_ thing was sharpened?” Tucker argued. Church turned to him with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t know. Stand still and let me find out.”

“ _Hilarious_ , Church, piss off.” Tucker said as he scooched out of range of the weapon. He donned his two smallblades and tucked in every throwing knife he had on him on the belt across his chest.

“If I may-“ Wash interjected with a raised hand. He turned to Church, casting a glance at the less-than-sharp-blade. “You have been instructed to stay in this room, Church. I don’t think it’s wise for you to provoke the sailors. You should stay here.”

Church’s face was locked in a mix of a sneer, curled lip and all, and a grimace. He stood quiet for a few seconds before twisting the sword back in its place with a subdued “ _Fine_.”

Caboose turned to look at Franklin and Doc with a worried look as he grabbed his hammer. “Captain Blueberry muffin, can you look after Church for me?”

Wash could see Church roll his eyes in the background, but he was blessedly abstaining from commenting on his appointed _protector._

“I can’t fight, Caboose. I’m just a Seer,” Franklin said quietly. “I am so, so sorry to be a burden right now, but I have no idea how to fight.”

“It’s fine, Donut.” Simmons turned to rummage through his and Grif’s belongings. “Crap, I have no idea. Maybe I can, uh… My _other_ ability doesn’t use arcane energy-“

“ _How?!”_ Church said. “I’m seriously starting to believe you are a demigod, seriously. How the hell can you use magic that doesn’t take arcane energy?!”

“Now is not the time to debate this!” Wash cut in before turning to Simmons. “Can you fight without your magic, yes or no?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never used my ability on purpose!”

“Well, son, turning a bunch of soldiers into undead thralls does not seem like a good idea!” Sarge said as he came barging in. “Everyone who’s not fighting, stay here. Lock the door and be ready to jump into the water should someone come in! We’re playing decoy until the lazy bastard gets a hold of his _backup_! At least, that’s what I think he’s doing since he never explained it before taking a little dive!”

“He did _what_?!” Simmons cried.

“We’re heading up, then.” Wash nodded. “Let’s go!”

In the end, all but Church, Donut and Doc opted to run up to help fight, even if Simmons expressed many times that he had little idea on if his abilities would be of much use.

Warning cries above deck were brought to their attention far too late, and they fell to their knees in a startling tumble as the Manu Wai was struck with the ram of the first-rate. Splinters flew everywhere, and hauntingly enough, Wash could see the very top of the ram peaking out from a hole in the hull just a few meters away. If the ram was so huge that the top reached the _gun deck_ , then surely it would’ve reached the orlop deck and below. The ship would take in water and sink almost immediately, if the ship didn’t break in two completely.

Wash scrambled to get up and run up to the weather deck, the rest of the Guild in tow. His bad knee cried out in protest, but he gritted through it and took a deep breath. He heard O’Riley scream,

“Spikes!”

And the explosive sound of the giant blades jutting out from the space beneath the gundecks rung in Wash’s ears as they pierced the other ship. With the giant hole in the ship, Wash could see, just as he came up to the weather deck, how the spikes connected deep into the first-rate’s deck and held fast, trapping their own ship with theirs.

 _Clever_ , Wash thought grimly. _They have to go down with us to sink us_.

It didn’t help their chances of survival, but it was a bitter response to the first-rate’s cruel brutality of sinking them without taking prisoners. During wartime, such a matter would be taken as a war crime, as ships and crews were valuable and more or less operated on a gentlemen’s conduct of honor. To ram a ship to sink them entirely and take no prisoners was surely something that had angered O’Riley to his very core.

And as he came up to watch the lieutenant give orders and prepare for the other ship to come board them, he did indeed look furious, with half of his hair out of his cue and his sword out of its scabbard.

Wash looked up to see the other ship prepare to board them, and was struck with how massive it was. The Manu Wai had seemed like a beast next to all other ships he had seen before, but the first-rate lived up to its name. The bowsprit almost crashed together with the Manu Wai’s highest fighting tops, and their own weather-deck was face to face with the first-rate’s second gun-deck.

“Mother of the Sky.” He said grimly as he watched the other ship prepare to fight.

“Let fly, marines!” O’Riley cried to the Captain of the Marines. “Aim for their archers!”

And so, their own archers, previously hidden in the fighting tops, came up from their hiding spots with arrows at the ready. They aimed and fired with an impressive unison, and seemed to have taken the other ship by surprise, as Wash could hear many men’s cries of anguish and pain as the archers hit their target. They shot volley after volley, barely giving themselves time to breathe as they emptied their entire reserves in an attempt to kill as many men as they could from their low position.

The boarders moved back slightly, regrouping.

“One of our men has called for backup!” Wash yelled as he came to O’Riley. “We might have a chance of surviving this, but we need to prolong this as much as we can!”

“And _how_ is he bringing backup on the open sea?” O’Riley yelled back as he shoved his hair back into place.

“We don’t have time to debate this, you have to trust us!”

O’Riley looked at him with a look that seemed humorously exasperated for the situation. It screamed ‘ _surely, you cannot be serious’_ , but he let it be.

“’Ware, boarder!” Storm yelled.

Wash and O’Riley both whipped their heads towards the other ship. They had begun to prepare the bosun’s chairs, but were nowhere close to lower their men down. So, what-?

Wash’s heart stopped for a second as he saw no one other than the Meta, clad in his armor and giant two-handed sword at the ready, stand at the bow end of the first-rate and jump down. It was a fall that should’ve killed him, the distance nowhere near safe enough for him to survive, but as the man landed in the middle of their deck with a loud crack as the wood beneath him bent and almost gave way to the weight; the Meta stood tall and brought up his sword in challenge.

 _Impossible,_ Wash gaped. _He should be dead_.

“Gods,” O’Riley whispered. “What magic does he possess?”

“I’m pretty damn sure that’s a berserker, sir,” Said the bosun grimly. She nodded towards the Meta. “I’ve seen a few of them down south. They’re Scanian beasts, damn near unstoppable and un-killable. No other man can grow to that height and survive a fall like that. A drop of blood in their systems and they turn into monsters. He’s more bear than man.”

Wash stared at her, and then back at the Meta. He was, surely, a beast of a man, with a strength that seemed to border on otherworldly, but he had never seen him try such feats before. He had never heard of the Scanian beasts the bosun had described, but _beasts_? Maine was many things, brutish, strong and quiet, but ultimately _human_. The man had certainly been an enigma, and prone to growling more than communicating, but his physical appearance was that of a human and not… beastlike.

 _Right?_ As he stared at the Meta, calculated the distance he had fallen without injury, and blinked. His convictions felt more brittle by the second. He had never seen him manage such feats as a Freelancer.

“How do we kill him?” O’Riley said to the bosun. She only looked at him.

“We can’t.” She said as the Meta sweeped his sword across the weather deck and cleaved three men in two. Wash felt the bile rise in his throat. There was no way they could distract the first-rate long enough for Grif’s plan to work.

“Caboose!” Wash heard Tucker cry suddenly. Wash had been so preoccupied by the other ship he hadn’t put any thought to where the rest of the Guild had run to. But as the Meta moved to strike another terrified crew member, their marauder ran straight towards him with his hammer ready.

“Bad man!” Caboose yelled and stopped right before him, bringing his hammer in an upswing that met the Meta’s chin with such a force that his helmet caved in on his face with a sickening crunch. Blood spurted out of the helmet and stained his armor, but the Meta only fell to his knees for a few seconds before he grabbed at his sword and struck Caboose with the flat side of his blade.

Caboose cried out and fell towards the railing, but grabbed at it and jumped back just quick enough to avoid another strike that came right for his head. He grabbed his hammer and backed away, ignoring a nasty wound on his arm that a splinter had caused. Wash could see the muscle beneath the blood tense up as Caboose swung his hammer to the side and hit the Meta in the head again, this time to the cheer of the crew.

But the Meta, once more, only crumbled slightly and shook his head. When the Meta turned to the side, and Wash could clearly see where Caboose’s second strike had come down, he actually had to lean away from the people around him and spit up bile as it bubbled up his throat.

The Meta’s helmet had damn near crushed his head, with the shape so inhuman it looked concave. Blood flowed freely from every hole in the helmet, and yet the Meta was still standing.

“By the King!” O’Riley whispered again as the Meta reached up, grabbed the hole in his split-visor helmet and _teared_ it open with his bare hands. Beneath it was a mess of gore and blood, with only a pair of haunting, pitch-black eyes even remotely resembling a human face. He spat out some blood, completely unperturbed that half of his head was caved in, and wiped sweat away from his eyes. Then he grabbed his sword and struck again, fully focused on Caboose.

 _That_ , Wash backed away from the sight. _That’s not Maine._

He remembered his face. The man would often wear a helmet, certainly, but he could still remember him. Brown eyes, shaved head, a bulky frame and scarred face. That _thing_ in front of him had pitch-black eyes, veins bulging out of its neck and a mouth open in a perpetual growl. Blood flowed freely from its head, Wash could’ve sworn he saw grey matter slid down its face. But he could also recognize the scars. He had seen them a few times, remembered South telling stories about how Maine received a very distinct, forked scar that ran across his forehead and down to his cheek. It had the same scar.

_Oh, Maine. What have you become?_

Caboose managed to evade one strike, but he stumbled and fell and barely had time to bring up his hammer as protection before the Meta brought his sword down. Cracks echoed across the two ships, and Caboose’s arm bent queerly before his grip on his hammer loosened and he cried out in pain.

Wash didn’t think. He only saw a Guild member in peril, and despite feeling like he was no match for the _monster_ that the Meta seemed to have become he felt his legs scramble into action and he ran as fast as he could towards the battle.

“Maine!” He cried as the Meta prepared another strike. The Meta stopped in his tracks and looked up, locking eyes with Wash.

Wash felt himself stop in his tracks, locked in place as if staring at the eyes of a predator. They resembled a bear, pitch black and small, and from his mouth came a growl so guttural there was no doubt that it wasn’t human.

A pang of grief took over Wash suddenly. His mouth felt dry as he looked the beastly man up and down. Whatever his former teammate had become, all humanity seemed entirely lost to him.

Caboose fell suddenly to his side, but as Wash ran forward in worry, the marauder sweeped the legs of the Meta and the giant man fell to the floor, his sword scattered a few meters away from him.

 _“Stay out of this, cub.”_ The Meta growled with a voice that reverberated through Wash’s bones. Even the voice sounded wrong, hauntingly bestial and monstrous.

“No,” Caboose responded as he shimmied away and tried to sit up without the use of his arms, both of them hanging uselessly at his side. “You are a bad man, and this is not your ship. Go away!”

Then a flash of turquoise whipped past Wash as Tucker sprinted towards the sword and grabbed it. It was far too heavy for the smaller man to move, and Wash moved to help him. With a heave that took most of Wash’s strength, the sword moved and slithered down a hole in the hull, plummeting to the waters below.

The Meta turned to them with a guttural roar, and Wash felt himself freeze on the spot, uselessly locked in place. Caboose stood up and rammed the Meta as he barreled down towards Tucker and Wash, and the two giant men tumbled down to the floor together.

“Caboose!” Wash yelled.

Caboose managed to clumsily untangle himself from the other man and scooted away as far as he could, still trying to stay in front of Wash and Tucker with a protective stance.

The Meta moved to advance on them again, but stopped in his track as a voice cried out, amplified by the power of a speaking trumpet,

“Hold it!”

Wash turned to look, and there stood Grif next to O’Riley, the latter with a pale face and shocked look, his hands still in the shape as if he was grasping the trumpet. Grif was drenched to the bone, heaving and wheezing, but he still pointed at the Meta with a ferocious glare.

“Step away from the idiot and go back to your ship, we’ve got you surrounded!”


	43. How to shock your first lieutenant into ineptitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings friends. I emerge from my study cave to give you a chapter before I have to retreat once more to study periodontal diseases. (Yay for dental school!)  
> Stay safe!

** The Siren Sea **

** Manu Wai **

The Meta only looked at Grif with a terrifying grin.

Wash grabbed at Caboose and, with the help of Tucker, heaved the large man up on his feet and away from the Meta, but the latter seemed entirely focused on the new challenger.

Silence filled the air around them at first, with only the heaving gasps of pain from Caboose filling the void. Grif didn’t move. Neither did the Meta. He locked eyes with the hunter, still grinning. Spitting out blood, and a chunk of something that made Wash’s stomach turn, the Meta took another step towards Grif.

“Suit yourself.” Grif said flatly. Then he turned the speaking trumpet to his left, yelling out to the open sea. “Huggins!”

At first, nothing happened. Grif’s words seemed to almost echo across the ocean, and Wash couldn’t help but look around as if an allied ship would appear out of nowhere to aid them. Time seemed to have stopped, and only the terrifyingly, almost echoing, heavy footsteps of the Meta stalking towards Grif convinced Wash that it hadn’t stilled entirely.

At first, he heard the sounds. Like the distant roar of a waterfall, approaching with an impossible speed. Then both ships rocked oddly and the noise of the waterfalls exploded as four pillars of water sprouted out from the sea like erupting geysers. Wash fell back in shock, slipping out from underneath Caboose’s arm. They had appeared out of nowhere, and still sprouted in a constant stream upwards as small droplets rained down upon both of their ships and washed away some of the blood. Wash had never seen anything like it.

“Sirens!” Cried the bosun, and the same cries echoed across the other ship. Both crews looked terrified and seemed eager to get as far away from the erupting geysers as possible, but with no real way out.

The Meta paled considerably beneath the blood and the gore, and he moved away quickly, sprinting towards the other ship and taking a great leap to catch the cover of a gun port and rammed himself into the empty space, back on his ship.

The spikes of the Manu Wai snapped sharply as the second ship rocked ominously, as if singularly taken by some great underwater force. A great wall of water sprouted out of nowhere between the two of them, forcing the first-rate away from them. Some crewmembers on the first-rate collapsed and fell, taken by the giant wall of water and flung high up into the sky before crashing to their deaths in the water below, mouths open in shock and soundless terror as the sea swallowed them whole.

Wash watched in a mix of horror and wonder. _Was that the power of sirens? Queens of the Oceans indeed._

Then another thing erupted from the water as the water wall fell away from them. It warped and moved until Wash could see the top of the water pillar turning into a woman. She stood there, silently watching the other ship, before she gently moved her hand, and another wave rocked the first-rate and sent it further away.

“These aren’t your waters,” She said with a booming voice that echoed across the sea. “Leave, before I sink your ship to the bottom of the ocean.”

The first-rate didn’t need much encouragement, and Wash could see people sprint up and down the ratlines to use their full sails. The ship moved away eventually, with the cheer of the Manu Wai crew to lead them on.

Wash stood up again, somewhat embarrassed to have been so flabbergasted and shocked for a couple of minutes, but found himself frozen as the woman turned around. The pillar of water she stood on decreased and moved until she eventually came to where Grif and O’Riley stood.

“I think they got the message.” She said, smiling and seemingly completely unbothered by the fact that most sailors scrambled to get away from her.

Grif only grinned and spat out some water and O’Riley was completely frozen in place. As Wash turned to get a better look of the supposed siren, he could see why.

There was a supernatural, haunting beauty to her features that made Wash almost unable to breathe. It was an odd, ethereal and clearly non-human loveliness in her eyes that shone lapis lazuli, in her dark, curly hair that almost seemed to float around her, and in her white dress that almost seemed to move like it was liquid. Her skin was bronzed and beautiful, with several golden bands covering her arms.

Grif turned to say something to O’Riley but sighed and rolled his eyes as he didn’t seem to acknowledge his existence at all.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it; sirens are beautiful.” Grif clapped his hands in front of him, trying to bring him back to reality. “Wakey wakey, lieutenant!”

O’Riley blinked and shook his head, flushed to his hairline. He cleared his throat and looked away from the siren, who smiled and waved at him.

“Hello!” She said with a high-pitched, happy voice that could rival Caboose’s. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Don’t encourage him, Huggins!” Grif groaned.

“Caboose!” A familiar voice called as Church’s head popped up from beneath the hatch. The sailors barely paid attention to him as scrambled through ruins of cloth, wood and blood to reach them.

Tucker looked ready to collapse under the weight of Caboose, and it didn’t help that the larger man tried to turn around as soon as he heard the healer’s voice. A painful grimace that was no doubt _supposed_ to be a smile covered the giant man’s face, and as Church reached them, he tried to wave, grunted in pain and tried an innocent,

“Hi Church. I am not hurting.”

“ _Not hurting_ , my ass.” Church said. “Tucker, can you put him down?”

“Oh, sure,” Tucker groaned. “I am _definitely_ the sole reason why this guy can stand. Totally supporting all of his weight here- _Mother of the Sky,_ Caboose, I was joking don’t lean on me you’re gonna break my back!”

Wash jumped into action as Tucker’s knees almost buckled, and the both tried their best to gently lower Caboose down on his knees while Church rummaged through his bags. He pulled up as much of Caboose’s sleeves as he could without hurting him, as the large man would wince but try his hardest not to yelp.

“Did I do ok? Did I save people?” He muttered anxiously, looking around the ship.

“Fucking hell, kid.” Church sighed and shoved a stray hairlock away from his face. “You’re pretty much the only reason we’re not the Meta’s dinner so _yeah_ ; I say you did a good job. But that doesn’t mean you should jump into battle like that, you could’ve gotten yourselves killed!”

Caboose grinned, and he looked _so_ proud of himself that Wash couldn’t help but smile sadly.

“I am difficult to kill, Church.”

“But not immortal, dumbass. Unkillable. Whatever. Just be…” Church grimaced before uttering the next sentence very, _very_ quietly “Just be _careful_?”

“Yes, sir.” Caboose tried, once more, to salute but cried out for real this time.

Wash helped to roll up the other sleeve and winced when he saw the purpled and bruised arm and the distinct lump of a dislocated shoulder. He grimaced towards Church, who seemed to have seen the same thing on the other arm.

“Right.” He said, slightly pale as well. “We’re gonna have to snap these back in place.”

Wash was so preoccupied by their injured teammate that it took a good two seconds later than usual for him to register that Franklin and Doc had, not only, also emerged from the hatch, noticed the siren casually discussing things with Grif with gasps and awes, and then Franklin’s cry of shock as he sprinted towards them. The man was right behind Church before Wash had noticed him at all.

“What happened? Is he ok? Caboose, are you ok?!”

“I am ok, muffin man.” Caboose smiled. It no doubt looked somewhat macabre as the giant man was bruised, bloodied and injured severely, with both of his arms hanging uselessly at his sides.

Wash turned around, explanation seemingly at the ready, but he stopped abruptly and blinked.

“What on-“

Franklin was completely drenched and dripping water. He pushed his blonde hair, usually so beautifully curled, up his forehead as he tried to remove some of the water from his face.

“Everyone saw that _giant_ wall of water, yes?” Franklin said innocently.

“Quite.” Wash said as he eyed the giant, continuously spraying geysers with a worried look.

“Well, _someone_ had the window open. So, our room is… uh… well, it’s a good thing we put most of our stuff in our chest because everything else is _preeeetty_ soaked through.”

“Church and I managed to escape the worst of it.” Doc said as he shuffled his feet. Wash could hear the discreet slosh of soaked-through boots.

Franklin cleared his throat. “I was on the floor. The sea and I… we don’t get along all that well.”

“Are you alright, lemon cake?”

Franklin turned to Caboose with a pained smile. “Oh, Mikael, don’t you worry about me. Worry about yourself for once.”

“I am ok-“ Then he cried out as Church took the opportunity while the larger man was distracted to pop his shoulder back in. Doc popped in immediately, readying bandages.

“Fucking hell, Church!” Tucker muttered.

Church shrugged. “Better he focuses on something else if he can. Caboose, we got one arm left, you’re gonna have to go through that again, ok?”

“I can do it.” Caboose whispered, and he only bit his lip and grunted when the other shoulder was snapped back in place. One shuddering breath later and he looked up at Franklin, who looked quite green and ready to vomit.

“I am ok.” Caboose repeated.

“Ok.” Franklin repeated with a small smile. He leaned down and grabbed Caboose’s hand. “Ok. Good. One thing settled. So, uh… what’s with the-“ he gestured helplessly around him.

Everything seemed, no doubt, to be in complete shambles. Wash didn’t blame him at all for looking confused. Doc had, at least, the opportunity to work with his patient as a way of distracting himself, but the Seer stood in the middle of all the chaos with little idea of what had taken place.

“Creepy guy tried to kill us; Caboose stopped him. Siren-thing showed up. We’re still sinking. What else is new.” Tucker summarized with a tired groan. He turned to Wash. “Someone should go to Grif, by the way. Just to make sure O’Riley doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“And why am I the one who should do so?” Wash raised his eyebrow.

“You speak his language. Y’know, prissy, nobleman language. Just go, you’d do a better job than any of us.”

Wash was too tired to argue with that, honestly, and worked up the power to stand and walk over towards where Grif and O’Riley stood.

Said hunter stood in the middle of a conversation happening between the Siren, _Huggins(?),_ and O’Riley, whilst Simmons snuck up to stand next to him. Wash could see the mage whisper something, somewhat agitated as his hands kept fidgeting, to Grif while the latter just rolled his eyes and leaned over to kiss him on the temple.

 _Is now the best time to fraternize?_ Wash thought grimly as he came up towards them.

“I hate to interrupt-“ He said, and pointedly avoided to look at the siren. She was oddly captivating, and Wash felt like he very much needed to keep in brains intact at the moment. “But our ship is still suffering somewhat. Could this discussion perhaps be postponed?”

O’Riley put his hand up in front of Wash. “We have reached that far in our conversation, thank you very much for your input, young Lord Washington. I did not intend to stand here while our vessel sinks to the ground. It was-“ He gestured towards the siren somewhat awkwardly, a blush still covering his cheeks. “- _Huggins_ here ascertained the Manu Wai’s survival. At least until we can find harbor.”

“Would be a shame to let you guys sink.” Huggins smiled towards Wash. “Don’t worry, I got this. Though I should probably… hold on.”

She clapped her hands a couple of times, as if to call attention to something, and the pillars of water slowly started to recede.

“There, now we can talk. Now, as I was saying, Mr. First Lieutenant, you have nothing to worry about when it comes to us. You are not intruding on our waters, you are not in trouble with the Coral Throne. It’s just Dex here who thought you would need a helping hand.”

Grif waved awkwardly towards the first lieutenant as he spun around to look at him. O’Riley’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times.

“You’re…”

“A Dripfolk, yeah.” Grif shrugged. “And aren’t you guys _really_ fucking lucky for that, before you start talking shit? We would’ve been long gone if she hadn’t showed up.”,

“Oh, I couldn’t let my son’s friends all die at the hands of the ocean.” Huggins waved away the notion with her hand, her tone far too happy for the fairly grim subject.

“ _Not_ your son.” Grif added vehemently. He crossed his arms and tried to shake away the flush on his cheeks, looking very much like a child.

“Adopted son. And I will stick with that until the day I perish, young man.”

“Phelee’s breath, Huggins.” Grif muttered, but didn’t protest it further.

“I…” O’Riley looked at a loss for words. “We are thankful for your help, ma’am, I did not mean to sound ungrateful. What little encounters we have with sirens and their… people is often not the benevolent kind, I apologize if it seems to be so. We are grateful for your help, only I have little idea of how we will ever repay you.”

“Meh.” She said, shrugging. “Captain Ash is _technically_ family, and all the crew onboard as well. Oh, _oh_ , I am a terrible person; how is our dear captain?”

Once again, O’Riley looked like he was going to implode with confusion. He blinked at her before looking at Grif, and then back again. “I am terribly sorry, but do you care to enlighten me with what you mean with the ‘family’-“

“Oh, I know Dex and Kai aren’t the most _familial_ with their shoal, but they could be considered cousins. I’m a little bit sentimental like that, but I know that Muggins _do_ care about Ash, in his quiet and brooding kind of way. So, on that note; how is she?”

“I…what?” O’Riley turned to Wash with a helpless look.

“Niner’s a Dripfolk, like me.” Grif said, subdued. “Surprise!”

Wash’s head almost cracked audibly as he turned to Grif in shock. “What? Truly?”

“Oh, hell!” Storm said suddenly from O’Riley’s left. He laughed slightly as he put his hand on O’Riley’s shoulder. “Did you know about this, Jack?”

“I…” O’Riley didn’t even seem to notice that the other lieutenant had used his first name _again_. He was terribly pale, and Wash couldn’t help but scooch closer just in case the man would forget to breathe and pass out. “I did… certainly…not know that.”

“Oh, shush, we can all be surprised about that later,” Huggins waved her arm with an urgent tone that made O’Riley’s head snap back up to her. “Where is she? Can I see her?”

“Uh… Yes, yes, you can. Of course, you can, my apologies. She’s… Her legs are… that is…”

“Good lord, Jack.” Storm laughed and slapped his back. “I have never seen you like this. Stay here and get some air, I’ll take the lady down. If you’ll follow me, ma’am.”

“Fantastic, thank you very much.” She smiled brightly and bounded after the third lieutenant, whistling a tune quite happily.

Wash was about to open his mouth and further discuss their new plan of action, but found himself startled as a pair of hands shot out from the other side of the hull and grabbed the railings.

“Grif!” He called out, and took a few steps to shield the first lieutenant.

A woman climbed up from the other side of the hull, seating herself quite dexterously next to Grif on the railings. Her skin was bronzed as well, with breathtaking curls that framed her beautiful face. Gold bands, decorated in the same way as Huggins, covered her arms and jingled softly as she moved to toss her hair in front of her voluptuous, toned and very, _very_ naked body.

Wash flushed and looked away just as he heard Grif groan.

“Didn’t I tell you to bring _clothes_?”

“What’s the deal, Dex? Plus, the Captain’s kinda hot. Hey, handsome!”

Wash could hear O’Riley sputter and move away with incoherent mutters, mostly variations of ‘ _good lord’_ and ‘ _For the love of the King’_.

“Fuck’s sake, hang on. Here, take my shirt.”

“What?” Cried the unknown woman. Wash could almost hear her pout. “Not far, c’mon. Your shirt’s ugly.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you decided to climb up here without a fucking shirt. Tough shit, Kai, put it on… Look away, for fuck’s sake, have you never seen a woman before?”

Wash could see several crewmembers snap into action and they moved away, some pretending to work whilst still stealing glances at the newcomer. Wash heard the ruffling of cloth and dared to look back again.

She was fully clothed this time, and winked at him as he turned. Wash flushed again.

“Hiya,” She said, completely unperturbed.

“Guys, this is Kai.” Grif said awkwardly. He gestured at her before he crossed his arms, seemingly in an effort to hide the bandages across his chest. “She’s my sister.”

“Good lord, I need a drink.” O’Riley muttered to himself. It was probably not meant to have been audible enough for Wash to pick up, and the first lieutenant did look up, quite embarrassed, when Wash huffed in indignation.

Though, Wash supposed, it was fair for him to be somewhat rattled and shocked, given how much of his world had just turned upside down.

“Right you are, Mr. O’Riley.” He said with a small nod. “This has been quite a long day. How fares our journey? Are we certain we can reach shore before the vessel sinks?”

“The Manu Wai is lost to us,” the first lieutenant admitted. “The… Siren claims she used some of her magic to ensure we can get as far as Merchant’s Solace, but she will not survive any further. The Admiralty will have our heads after this.”

An exaggeration, Wash assumed, though O’Riley’s pale face indicated something different.

“And the Captain… I-I have to go, young Lord Washington. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course.” Wash said, and touched his forehead as O’Riley stumbled away, still somewhat shocked.

He turned to Grif and his… sister, as the two of them were locked in a discussion. He must’ve looked terribly lost since Simmons had the audacity to laugh at him.

“Yeah, same.” Simmons admitted. He shoved his hair back and rubbed his eyes. They were all exhausted and wounded in one way or another, and Wash found himself sitting down in the rubble. Simmons joined him with a sigh. He rummaged around in his long, voluminous sleeves. Then he procured a wineskin.

“Want some?”

“I believe I do need some of that, yes.” Wash admitted, and he took a swig of the liquor with a gentle sigh.

It had been a very, very, _very_ long day.


	44. Former Freelancer vs. Basic Human Emotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends~  
> Not much to add, swimming in homework and assignments, have a chapter.  
> Stay safe!

** The Siren Sea **

** Manu Wai **

“For the love of the King, O’Riley, I am quite alright. You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“You’ll forgive my sad state, Captain. I am… quite at a loss for words at the moment.”

 _That’s an understatement_ , Wash thought as he opened the door to the sickbay, Grif in tow.

Even with the window open, the smell of death hit him so violently that he lurched back for a few seconds before he could catch his bearings and continue on into the room. The sand crunched beneath his feet as he neared the operating table where the crowd stood, surrounding Niner lying down on the table. Blood covered most of the floor and parts of the walls, and, oddly enough, the lamp that swung from the deckhead.

The surgeon turned around as they came in. She only nodded towards him and moved to give them both space.

Niner had scooched up on the operating table and sat up, with the aid of Huggins holding her by the shoulders. They both turned to look at them, Huggins with a bright smile and Niner with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

“Can’t keep a secret for more than a day, ey?”

“Eh, I figured Huggins would blabber eventually.” Grif admitted with a shrug. “Probably better to just get it over with.”

Niner scoffed. “Should’ve left that to me, kid.”

“Right. Sorry.”

She rolled her eyes, but left it at that. O’Riley looked between them with the confused frown that seemed dangerously close to be etched onto his face permanently.

Niner didn’t look _too_ bad, for a woman who had been so close to death. Her dark hair was mostly out of her braid and her face gleamed with sweat. But her eyes were sharp and her brow furrowed win determination, as if she could will the state of her legs away.

Wash’s eyes fell on her legs for a second. Had he not heard that they were no longer of use to her, he wouldn’t have guessed it. They were twisted oddly, but it looked more like something a quick twist of the kneecap could fix.

Grif cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “You got any Siren magic up your sleeves, Huggins?”

She shook her head gently, her hair still floating around her as if she was submerged underwater. “No.” She said quietly. “We are different from you. We can’t be harmed like you. We’re just-“

She raised her hand and twisted it slightly. Wash blinked as her hand turned translucent and clear, droplets of water floating around water shaped vaguely like a human hand. Then she twisted her hand again, and it looked normal once more.

“Yeah, sorry, Huggins.” Captain Ash rolled her eyes. “We gotta stick with our meatsacks throughout life.”

“Boring.” Huggins said with a pout. She turned to Grif. “Is Kai alright upstairs?”

“I’m sure she’s having the time of her _fucking_ life.” Grif replied dryly. He glared at the door and in the direction of the stairs, as if his sister, as Wash had just learned, could somehow hear him.

Perhaps she could. Wash knew very little of Sirens. Or Dripfolk. In fact, in that particular moment, he felt as if though the only thing he was certain of was how little he knew with certainty.

Ash moved again to look at O’Riley. “Better have someone corral our men then, if we have a horny Dripfolk upstairs throwing come-hither looks at everyone.”

She ignored Grif’s sputter of protest and _‘she better fucking not’_ and waited expectantly for O’Riley to react.

He blinked at her for a few seconds before coming to his senses. “Right. I will go then, Captain, if everything is as it should… _can_ be here, I suppose.”

“You need some fresh air; you look a bit pale. Dismissed.”

“You better not be trying something with my sister, lieutenant.” Grif added, thoroughly ignoring Wash’s scandalized look and reprimand. He shook off Wash’s hand and pointed at O’Riley. “I’m watching you.”

The lieutenant looked utterly confused before his brow furrowed and he huffed in indignation. But before he could respond, Captain Ash cut in with a laugh,

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about my lieutenant, kiddo. He only has eyes for Annie-“

“Captain, I do very much not!” O’Riley said sharply, seemingly flushed to the bone. But the Captain only waved away his embarrassment with a grin.

“Didn’t I say that you were dismissed? Up you go.” As O’Riley disappeared, she turned to Wash. “And on the subject of the Warlow family, how’s Gloria?”

The surgeon froze in her spot behind Wash and Grif. He could hear her audibly sigh before taking a deep breath. She turned around, but she didn’t need to say anything.

Ash’s face had fallen suddenly, and whatever sharpness she had had in her eyes were dulled out to a long stare, fixed to a spot on the floor.

“I see.” She said, quietly.

“I am sorry, Captain.” said the surgeon. Her hand, cold and clammy, grasped at Wash’s as he moved to talk. Gloria had been the one who tried to help Ash after she had been flung pell-mell across the ship as one of the sea dragons had crashed into its side. She had also been the one gruesomely swallowed by said sea dragon, but not before ensuring the Captain’s safety in the hands of some of the crew. It had been a noble death, indeed, and one that could hopefully ease the Captain’s mind.

But as Wash looked at the sunken look on Ash’s face, he doubted it would help her much. He turned to the surgeon with a nod and she removed her hand. They stood quietly there for a while, contemplating whether to speak or not.

“I would like to be alone, if you please.” Captain Ash said. It came out barely a whisper.

“Certainly, Captain.” Wash said with a brisk nod as he and Grif moved to the stairs to reach the weather deck once more.

“Think they had a thing?” Grif asked.

“I will not entertain something like that.” Wash responded curtly. “Besides the fraternization laws barring a relationship between a superior officer and a subservient, it is not our business.”

“Of course, _you’d_ care about fraternization laws.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, not a damn thing.” Grif sighed. “Just don’t tell Simmons that?”

Wash’s brow furrowed. “I am quite certain a man with such an adapt mind for the academics know the laws-“

“Trust me, he knows the _fraternization laws_. We all do. But it’s a stupid fucking thing, is all. We should be able to-“ He stopped, dragging his hand through his hair. He sighed again. “Never mind. Fucking hell, this _really_ isn’t the time.”

The walk to the weather deck had never felt so long. Wash followed Grif dutifully, a few steps behind just to give him space. Or was he perhaps suspicious? On edge? He couldn’t tell.

“If you’re worried about your… relationship with Simmons-“ Wash started, careful to say the words quietly.

Grif stopped in his tracks, dead silent.

“I won’t relay the information to your Sergeant. Though, I must admit you are perhaps not as… discreet as you should be.”

Grif didn’t say anything at first. And as he had, conveniently, paused right at the stairs leading up to the hatch, Wash had little choice but to stand still as well.

“ _Everyone_ ’s caught on.” Grif broke the silence with a frustrated sigh. “Except for Sarge. And the only one who probably _gives_ a shit would be Sarge… And since he hasn’t noticed anything yet, well.” He shrugged, still not looking back. “We shouldn’t have to hide. It’s a stupid law anyway. Who gives a shit?”

 _Simmons, I would presume_. Wash didn’t say anything. He felt as if though he was prodding at something that was no doubt quite the heated discussion between the two of them, regardless. It felt unnecessary to add more comments than what he had already added.

Grif hadn’t turned around yet, but his back was tense and his fingers fidgeting with nerves. Wash could see why.

Like Simmons, Grif had hidden an unnatural part of himself that gave Wash chills. At first, his mind had tossed words like _unnatural_ , _freaks, arcane horrors_ and other gruesome, cruel words that echoed in his head. It sounded like his father. It sounded like one of the hundreds of hateful tirades his father had forced him to endure, had tried to drill into his head. What should and should not be, _who_ should and should not be.

People like the Crowclimbers, who were all thieves and murderers and would only venture out of their mountains to raid and cause trouble, _things_ like Dripfolk, who would follow their evil master’s commands and lure sailors to the sea to drown them, who would attack honest folk on sight and tear their them asunder.

He could almost cite some of those lectures on memory alone. And as much as he didn’t believe in them, knew better than that; his first instinct had always been to shy away from it with a suspicious frown.

Simmons had accidentally revealed his unwanted powers to them, fearful for his own life. Grif had told them in a heroic effort to save the lives of the entire frigate, regardless of what the consequences on his own life would be. And Tucker… Tucker had dared to tell Wash that he was a Crowclimber, taking the risk of being exposed to the Guild Board for the crime of just _existing_ , of just _being born a Crowclimber_.

Wash tugged at his hair. His first thought, his first instinct, was to think that it was in need of a shave again. In honor of his Freelancer life, in honor of his House. Of his father. A constant reminder of _who_ he was and _how_ he should act.

His first instinct was that he needed to shave it. His second thought was that he _would very much not do it_.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he had held in and said, with a light tone as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulder,

“We all owe you our lives.”

“Huh?” Grif _did_ turn around this time. He flushed slightly and turned back around with a wave. “Pheele’s breath, no need to be so dramatic, Wash. I wasn’t gonna let you all drown.”

“I know. I only meant…” For all of his realization, Wash felt himself stumble at his words. “…I’ve misjudged you and Simmons. I was… skeptical, perhaps a bit afraid. But I was wrong. You saved us. Thank you.”

Grif looked back at him. His look was unreadable at first, but then he huffed and smiled a little bit. “It’s not everyday a _freaking Freelancer_ apologizes to you. Sure, Wash. You’re… welcome, I guess.”

The mood on the weather deck was somewhat strained to say the least, with a few sailors avoiding the Guild like the plague, and the rest seemingly trying to decide between tossing them in the water or thanking them for their help.

Franklin, Doc and Church were occupied with Caboose’s injuries in one way or another, arguing back and forth between certain medical procedures while their patient turned his head back and forth between them with a confused look. Sarge stood to talk to Storm, whom thankfully seemed to have little issue talking with him back. Some of the men seemed to have calmed down slightly as their lieutenant had words with the Guild without any anger or suspiciousness. But it didn’t stop some from skulking around the Reds and Blues like they were stalking around prey or enemies.

Grif hurried to his sister, who had more or less grabbed Simmons by his sleeves and stood to talk to him with a huge grin, the latter blushing and looking away. As Grif came into his peripheral, Wash could see him take a deep breath and back away slightly as the siblings carried the bulk of the conversation.

“-Something else, huh?”

Wash was more and more convinced that Tucker, too, had some supernatural abilities up his sleeve. He couldn’t fathom how the man could continuously sneak up on him and scare him half to death.

He then followed Tucker’s gaze where it rested on the Grif siblings.

“They’re an interesting… people, I suppose. The siren was something else indeed.”

“What, that one?” Tucker just shrugged. “Meh, she was _too_ pretty man. It was weird. Like a freaking spell or some shit, couldn’t move my eyes away. No, I mean _that_ -“ He nodded towards Kai, who was gesturing something towards her brother.

“Oh,” Wash said, oddly deflated in his tone. He didn’t mean for it to sound so, his voice just seemed to have chosen that exact moment to give up on him a little bit. He shuffled around awkwardly. “Yes, I suppose she is quite comely.”

“Not a fan of women, or something, dude?” Tucker raised his eyebrows suggestively. There was an eagerness to his tone that Wash couldn’t quite decipher. “I thought Grif said something about you _throwing eyes at O’Riley_ -“

“By the gods, cease that nonsense, if you please.” Wash hurried to interrupt. He shook his head. “No, no, Grif is entirely in the wrong there. I… had someone I used to… long for company, I suppose. But she and I were never to join Houses, or something of the like. I was just a boy lost in the beauty of a girl quite a long time ago.” He could think of Lady Grace Florida without a painful stab in his heart nowadays, but he could forever reminisce about how it felt to be in love.

His gaze fell on Tucker then, and he flushed as the rogue _still_ looked at him with an indescribable glint in his eyes.

“It was a long time ago.” He repeated, still flushed and feeling terribly awkward.

“What, you’re not… engaged to someone back home?” Tucker kept prying, surprised.

Wash almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. His eldest sister, the heir to their House, had had her fair share of engagement planning and joining discussions. Not to marry for love or affection, but for the betterment of the family’s standing. She was fine with it, and shone with pride that she, and what she would choose, was important for a lot of people. Wash was _quite_ happy that he never had to endure it. His mother had always hinted that he should find someone he actually _liked_ , while his father thought that it was better he didn’t find someone at all, and to only devote himself to his service to the royal family.

 _That didn’t work out well, did it, father?_ He thought bitterly.

“No.” He said then, pulling at his face as he tried to hide a bitter smile. “No, I am not.”

“Huh.” Tucker huffed. “With that fucking face, how can you not be?”

Wash blinked and turned to look at the other man, quite shocked. He expected him to look teasing, or to roll his eyes and loudly exclaim that he was kidding, but Tucker seemed to be surprised by his own words as well. Or somewhat mortified, Wash did not have the time to analyze his expression as the rogue quickly turned with a sputtering mix of ‘ _never mind, by the Mountains’_ and other curses as he walked, almost sprinted, to get away from him.

Wash stood there, blinking, not quite sure how to react. He wiped the sweat from his brows and let his fingers run through his hair. A weird lump had settled in his throat, and he had no idea what to do with it.

After a few seconds of awkwardly looking around himself, he settled for turning to Simmons and the Grif siblings.

“Greetings.” He said as he came forward to them. “Are we quite alright here?”

“Hello-“ Said Grif’s sister with a small wave and a smile so big it almost seemed predatory.

“No, no, no.” Grif said immediately as he shoved her slightly. “Don’t even try it. We already have _one_ person staring at him all doe-eyed.”

“We do?” Simmons said, just as Wash opened his mouth to ask as well.

Grif winked at him. “Tell ya later.” He laughed when he looked at Wash, who looked between the two of them, awaiting an explanation. “Oh no, fencer, it’s not gonna be that easy. Use your brain, you’ll figure it out.”

“I have better things to do than trying to _figure out_ something like that, as little as I believe it.” Wash said. Surely, he was teasing him. Grif had his moments of pensiveness, as he had showed on the ship several times, but most of the time he seemed to regard the world with a half-teasing smile. He wouldn’t take _these_ words on face value.

Grif and Simmons shared a look then before the former shrugged and raised his arms in defeat. “Suit yourself, Wash. Hey Kai, you jumping down with Huggins before we hit Merchant’s Solace? I think we’re gonna cause enough of a scene without a Siren and a _very obvious_ Dripfolk on the ship.”

“Nice try, Dex. Don’t try to get rid of me.” She responded with a pout. “You’ve been away for _years_ without as much as a letter and now you want me to go back to Coral Throne? You’re the worst.”

Grif sputtered. “ _How_ am I going to send you a letter underwater? And I’ve sent you plenty. When was the last fucking time you were even on land?”

“Uuuh, years, duh?” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Who wants to be on the smelly fucking land with all the Admiralty bullshit when you can chill with Sirens?”

“Right, so _I’m_ supposed to just go up to the Isles again to say hi to you, no questions asked, but it’s too much to ask for your ass to get on land and receive a letter every now and then?”

Kai’s eyebrow flew up in surprise. “Wait, you actually _sent_ me letters? You were actually trying to be nice? Who are you and what have you done to my brother?”

“Fuck off, Kai.”

“Gladly. Think that guy with the cloak can come with me? He’s been staring at me long enough.” She moved to wave to Tucker, who had joined Caboose and the others. He raised his hand to wave back, but stopped with a blink as Grif’s gaze was absolutely murderous.

“Nope.” Grif growled and grabbed her sleeve to move her away from Tucker’s view. “Not a chance.”

“Gods, you’re so _boring_ , Dex.” She sighed. “You don’t need to be such a bitch just because you’re older than me. I can take care of myself. Been doing it for a while ever since you left us for the human.”

Simmons looked up, looking terribly guilty. “Uh, sorry about that.”

“That was _you_? Oh, I take it back, Dex, I kinda freaking get it now. He’s cute… in a tall glass of nerves kinda way.” She winked at Simmons, who seemed flushed to the bone. He looked at everything else besides her. “So, when was the first time you guys fu-“

“I believe I will take my leave of you.” Wash said suddenly, turning. “You seem to be doing quite alright on your own.”

“Please don’t leave me.” Simmons whispered urgently before he was yanked back to the conversation by Kai.

Wash was hoping he could avoid further awkward conversations, perhaps find his way to talk to O’Riley or Huggins about their exact whereabouts, but he was snatched back from attempting to walk down the hatch by a surprisingly firm,

“Oh no, you don’t!” From Franklin. He pointed a stern finger at him. “You look like you’re two minutes away from collapsing from sheer exhaustion, Wash. I’m having a hard-enough time trying to convince Caboose to get some rest, don’t make me angry.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Franklin.” Wash said, politely removing his sleeve from Franklin’s grip. “But I have little time to sleep. I must talk to O’Riley, to figure out what we will do next.”

“Gods, Wash, I promise that the world will continue spinning even if you’re not there to plan it.” Franklin argued. “You need some rest, I’m not going to tell you again. Maybe if you’ll go to sleep, Caboose will follow.”

“I am not tired, Captain Muffin-“

“I don’t care, Caboose, you need to rest!” He didn’t even look at the marauder, only pointed a finger at him while keeping a surprisingly strong stare at Wash. He had to admit that he was impressed, as much as he didn’t like to be mothered.

Franklin sighed and shook his head. “Someone else can do the right thing for once, Wash. You don’t need to be there to witness it all the time. If something happens, we’ll wake you. I promise. You can trust me.”

“I-“

“Wash.” Franklin warned, hands on his hips. “I’m serious. Get. Some. Rest.”

Wash could only huff with a mix of exasperation and admiration for the smaller man. He rubbed at his face, sighing.

“If it’ll make you feel better, Seer Franklin.”

“Yup, now shoo.” Franklin smiled triumphantly at him before he none-too-gently escorted him down to their own chambers, grasping at his elbow every time Wash seemed eager to discreetly try to veer them to the sickbay to talk to Huggins.

Their own room smelled oddly humid, and Wash blinked confusedly when they both entered. Then he remembered, and looked at the open window.

“Right.” He said.

“The little watertrick the Siren pulled, yup.” Franklin agreed, before he herded Wash towards a cot that was blessedly free of water and humidity. “Up you go. I’ll try to make the other guys get some sleep as well.”

“I’m touched by your concern.” Wash said with a small smile as he climbed up in the cot.

For all of his adrenaline and nerves keeping him on his toes, he was dead asleep before Franklin had even left the room.


	45. The Admiralty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it, boys.  
> One volume down, two to go.
> 
> (did I release this chapter specifically today so that it took me exactly 1 year from start to finish? Yes, yes I did indeed. Happy birthday, Power Chronicles)

** The Siren Sea **

** Manu Wai **

It felt like half a century had passed when Wash finally opened his eyes, dazed and aching. Gentle snores filled the room, and he realized with a small huff that he had started to recognize the Guild members by their snores alone. Caboose was dead asleep, with the occasional snore that seemed to shake the cots. Tucker swayed around in a cot next to Wash, a gentle breathing giving way to the occasional spout of grunts and shifting around, like he was in a dream. And as Wash shifted to identify the whereabouts of Church, he couldn’t help but smile slightly as the mage had fallen asleep leaning against the wall right next to Caboose’s haphazardly made bed. A poorly done mage circle had been scribbled down, and the chalk was still in Church’s hand, threatening to fall out of his grip.

 _All the Blues in one place_ , Wash thought with a yawn. He tried to move around the cot, indecision grasping at him. It was tempting to try to catch some more sleep, to rest his aching body. The back of his knee, the injury he had basically forgotten about all together, cruelly reminded itself to him now as he twisted around. But naturally, as soon as he had found another semi-comfortable position, his mind wandered towards the state of the ship and its crew.

What would happen to Captain Ash? Was there a way to save her legs once they were back on land? What would happen to her crew? She would surely be deemed unfit to captain a new ship, as the Manu Wai was too far gone to save. Would she be honorably discharged from the navy for her injuries? Berated for the loss of the spiked warship? What would, and could, she do after all of it had calmed down?

Wash sighed and climbed out of the cot with difficulty, leaving much to be desired about his agility. His body still ached, and his legs seemed stiff and unwilling to bend. He noticed a sharp pain in his knee when he walked, as if it was hellbent on punishing him for sprinting around earlier with little care for his wellbeing.

Well, he was certainly paying the price now. After dressing, somewhat gingerly, he made his way up the hatch once more.

The crew seemed too tired to be agitated and suspicious. Most of them just languidly lazed around or slept somewhere on deck. Whatever magic Huggins had employed to keep the ship afloat seemed to also be able to steer it without the aid of wind or sails, and it left the crew ample time to sleep or grieve their way to the Isles.

He came across both lieutenants then, Storm seemingly in an attempt to cheer up or unwind the grim-looking O’Riley. When he came close enough to hear their conversation, it was amusingly similar to the one he and Franklin had had earlier.

“-And you’ll do no good with the Admiralty unless you get some sleep. We’re a few hours away, just take a small rest at the very least.”

“Those hours could be spent more productively, lieutenant. The Admiralty will have our necks if we do not play our cards right. I will not give them the opportunity. We both know the Captain has faced no small amount of animosity from them. They will jump on the opportunity to discharge her and leave her for dead.”

“They’ll leave you for dead, too, Jack-“

“Enough. I am your superior officer, not your friend, lieutenant. You’ll do well to remember it. Dismissed.”

Wash almost barreled into Storm as the man turned to leave, and only just managed to move aside enough to watch the lieutenant grit his teeth before stomping away.

O’Riley looked at him expectantly, hands clasped behind his very straight back. His hair was back in its que and he looked ever as presentable as before, only the dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of his exhaustion.

“I thought you more of a gentleman, Young Lord Washington.” He said sharply. “It is not proper to listen in on other conversations.”

“It was not my intention,” Wash said, as if he had not been frozen in place the second he had heard the topic of the argument. “What is this about the Admiralty? I do not know much about our Navy-“

“They command the bulk of our Navy from the Egeniella Isles, governed by the Grand Tide from the Regia Curis; Lord Constantin IV of the House Connecticut.” He raised a sharp eyebrow. “I’m certain I do not need to educate you on who the Connecticuts are.”

“You certainly do not.” Wash said. He had met with Connie’s father a fair number of times. Less and less as they grew older, but he had been a guest of his many a times, and Lord Connecticut visited Avalanche a number of times as well. He was an old man, with quite a few years on many of the other members of the Royal Council. A quiet and thoughtful man, who had perhaps grown a bit too lenient in his later years, Wash thought grimly, since the Admiralty seemed to be more or less the sole rulers of the Navy now.

“As someone with connection to their House and as a personal friend of one of their members, perhaps I can be of service. Lord Constantin is perhaps far away in Kingslight, but a letter of aid might reach him quick enough. Are you expecting issues from the Navy, lieutenant?”

O’Riley seemed determined not to say anything at first, his mouth a grim line. When he spoke, his tone was short and clipped,

“We are. And it is nothing that concerns you or your Guild, young Lord Washington. Leave the Manu Wai’s concerns to its officers.”

As much as Wash wished to continue the argument, the lieutenant had an authority on board he couldn’t tamper with, and so he left him to stare at the horizon with a grim face.

He found Grif with Simmons and Huggins. Simmons was dead asleep, his head resting against Grif’s leg as the latter leaned over the railing, talking to Huggins. He turned slightly when Wash approached, and nodded towards Simmons.

“Keep it quiet, Wash. Finally got the dumbass to get some sleep. What’s up?”

“I was about to ask you,” Wash admitted. He looked out across the ocean. It was daytime, and the sun seemed to be about in the same position it had been when he went to sleep. It tugged at his insides uncomfortably. Had he been asleep for a full day or just a couple of hours? He shook it off. “What are we to do now?”

“What do you mean?” Grif raised his eyebrow. “Unless you think you can swim to Merchant’s Solace faster than this ship can take you-“

“Which I doubt. No offense, but you humans are _so_ slow.” Huggins cut in with a teasing smile and a wink.

“-All we gotta do is wait.”

“I am aware of that, Grif. I only meant… I keep hearing worrying reports of the Admiralty as if we are expecting trouble when we reach the shore.”

“ _We_ aren’t.” Grif shook his head. “Niner and O’Riley will be brought in to report and for a hearing, I’m guessing, and considering how fucked the ship is; it’s not looking good. The Admiralty’s are all assholes and will probably tear this crew apart completely, but we are just guests. All we can do is wish Niner _‘good luck with that shit’_ and move on with our quest.”

Wash regarded him with a cold look. “You mean we are to leave the Manu Wai without any aid? Any at all?”

“I’m not exactly _happy_ about it either, am I?” Grif argued back. He grimaced slightly as Simmons sighed in his sleep and moved a bit. He continued on, much quieter, “You’re the one going on and on about how we need to focus on our mission. And honestly, I don’t know shit about the _officer_ -side of things, man. I don’t know how to report to the Admiralty, hell; there’s no way in hell I’d ever get an audience with them. What do you want me to do about it?”

“Is there truly nothing we can do? Nothing?” Desperation tugged at Wash’s heart. Captain Ash had aided them _twice_ in their quest, and now they could no nothing to help them in their time of need? It seemed almost villainous to just walk away from the potential disaster the crew had assumed it would turn into.

Grif sighed and rubbed at his forehead. Huggins watched him with a quiet look of concern, and shuffled discreetly to move closer to him. As she bumped shoulders with him, he grunted slightly, but didn’t move.

“I don’t’ know what we can do, Wash. Seriously. This isn’t something I can do.”

“Perhaps we can send for Lord Connecticut, then, should trouble arise.” Wash suggested.

Grif snorted. “Right, yeah, sure, _we’ll_ get right on that. _You’re_ the only nobleman we have. We _peasants_ aren’t gonna be able to do shit.”

“Strong words for the man who rushed to the Coral Throne to ensure the safety of the ship.” It was meant as a compliment, and Wash hoped his tone was a bit gentler. Grif huffed again.

“For whatever it was worth.” He muttered.

“I didn’t mean to antagonize you, Grif. I only meant to ask you on what seemed to be the best course of action for us now. You are the one with the most naval knowledge, and we’ve all turned to you when we didn’t know what to do on this ship.”

Grif flushed slightly. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Huggins looked at him with the proud smile of a mother. She ruffled his hair with a smile. “Look at my boy, taking the reins of leadership.”

“Don’t overdo it, Huggins.” Grif said. But he let her ruffle his hair some more.

“So,” Wash said, in conclusion. “Should I perhaps talk to Captain Ash about Lord Connecticut, then? If the Admiralty are governed by the Grand Tide, his words would matter greatly in these… hearings and reports. Should the Admiralty decide to do something drastic, perhaps the Grand Tide can lessen the sentence.”

The more he heard about the Admiralty, the more the word _sentence_ seemed to fit the fate of Captain Ash. She would not face jail-time, certainly? It seemed absurd, as ships had been lost to Sea dragons before, and certainly to an enemy ship-

He stopped there. Gods, he had forgotten about Maine entirely. About how the man was, somehow, connected to the group of bandits who had attacked them on their way back from Ivory Tower. About how their ship had seemed to be on the hunt. For _them?_ It was the second time they had been attacked by members with that sigil, it couldn’t be a coincidence.

He _had_ to send words to the Delta, as fast as he possibly could. He had no idea what it could be, but it seemed much bigger than just a small group of bandits causing trouble.

“Uh, Wash?”

“My apologies, to the both of you. But there is something I must do. I don’t suppose you know where I will be able to send a letter with the outmost urgency once we reach the harbor?”

Grif blinked. “Uh, I guess by ship? I know some express schooners that go between Merchant’s Solace and Darkpass, at least.”

“It will have to do. If you’ll excuse me.”

And he urged on down to their room once more, to write a report to the Delta. The snores of the Blues and the soft clinks of his pen hitting the side of the ink bottle was the only sound he could hear for a long time. Parchment after parchment was covered in his hasty writings, and after the first draft of the report he realized, begrudgingly, that he had to rewrite the whole thing.

Eventually, both Tucker and Church woke to the incessant sound of his writing, and both sat to listen to him reading the report out loud in hushed whispers.

Tucker seemed to catch his meanings fast enough, and urged him on with ideas and theories as Wash scribbled, but Church sat worryingly quiet and regarded the report with an undecipherable look.

The cries of _‘land o’hoy’_ reached their ears soon enough, and Wash moved to wipe the sweat of his brow and try to flex his aching, ink-stained hand. They moved to pack, all quiet and lost in their own thoughts. Church had still not said a word about the report, which confused Wash slightly. He never shied away from pointing fingers, and certainly never shied away from expressing his opinions.

Their belongings were soon brought up to the weather deck, and Wash found it conveniently empty of both Huggins and Kai.

“Don’t worry, Huggins’s magic will work to the harbor. Can’t have a siren chilling on our ship when the Admiralty’s close.” Grif said. “See that shit? They’ve come to greet us, flagship and all.”

Wash moved to see what he meant. He had to lean over the side of the railing, but soon he managed to catch sight of a strip of land not too far away from them, perhaps only an hour’s time. Heading towards them, however, were three enormous ships, the one in the middle the same size as the first-rate they had come across before.

Wash couldn’t help but cast a worried glance at the two lieutenants standing on what remained of the forecastle deck. O’Riley stood with the spyglass ready, his grip on it hard enough that Wash almost expected it to crack, while Storm turned to gesture something to the bosun. Whistles and echoes of commands Wash couldn’t understand carried across the ship and forced the crew into action.

Captain Ash was carried up to the forecastle deck as well, in what looked like a makeshift open litter, the beams and the chair itself made from the scraps of what remained of the mizzenmast. Captain Ash’s attire was impeccable, her shirt and neckcloth pressed and her hair perfectly braided down to her side. Her hat sat steady on her head, and even though her eyes seemed glossy with pain and grief, she sat straight and proud as the ships came closer and closer.

The flagship, the large first-rate Wash had seen in the middle of the group before, and the Manu Wai began the long and painful procedure of coming up alongside each other. Shouts from one lieutenant and one bosun on the other ship mingled with the sound of the Manu Wai’s own commanding officers, but eventually a boarding ramp was secured between the two ships.

Captain Ash was carried down to the main deck then, with the lieutenants bordering the sides of her chair.

“Miss Orion.” She called when a group of people from the flagship moved to walk down gangway. “Pipe the side.”

“Ma’am.” Said the bosun before putting the bosun’s call to her lips.

The staff, or what remained of it, stood straight and saluted the people moving down the gangway.

Wash and the Guild had been shuffled to the side, away from the officers and hidden behind the crew. Whether it was customary for guests to not be apart of the procedure, or if someone didn’t want the Admiralty to see them, Wash had no idea.

The man leading them wore an impeccable uniform in white with gold trimmings on both armor and cloak. It didn’t have the same fashion of neckcloths and practical clothes the Navy seemed to have, but shared instead more similarities with the more opulent and rich decorated gear the mainlands were known for. He was accompanied very closely by a man in full armor, visor down and all, colored dark steel with sage-painted pauldrons and details.

“Niner!” Said the white-clad man with a crisp and proper voice that struck Wash back a bit. He had the same accent that Wyoming and O’Riley had, the telltale speech pattern of someone from the Burning Mounds region.

“Niner!” The man repeated as he approached the still saluting Captain. As he moved to stand in front of her, towering over the seated Captain even though he himself was not that tall, she stopped saluting. The whole crew followed suit, suddenly sharp at attention and moving perfectly in synch.

The white-clad man moved to take her hand and held it firmly between both of his hands. “I must apologize profusely for coming at you with such a force. It must’ve been quite a shock to receive us on the sea when your own vessel is in such a state. It was only with the utmost of urgency that we would force such a situation on you, I hope you will forgive us!”

Wash turned to look to Grif with a raised eyebrow. The Admiralty had been painted to be such villains, yet the one who supposedly led them seemed to be much more subservient than what he had expected. Grif met his eyes with an equally surprised face, and he shrugged helplessly.

“I heard from one of your ensigns about the state of your legs, a terrible affair that, my sincerest apologies!” The man continued to exchange pleasantries to deaf ears, as all on the ship seemed somewhat taken aback. Before Captain Ash had the time to respond, he had turned to her lieutenants. “I do not believe we’ve had the opportunity to speak with your officers either. It must’ve taken men of quite the caliber to carry on in such a situation. You must be the first lieutenant, then!”

“I am, sir.” O’Riley bowed quickly before he shook his hand. “First lieutenant Jack O’Riley, at your service!”

“Ah, a kinsman.” The man seemed delighted and shook his hand with more fervor. “O’Riley? Relative of the Wyoming House, if I remember correctly. Pleasure to meet you. And you too, sir.”

“John Storm, sir!” Replied the third lieutenant.

“My pleasure. My name is Donald Doyle, First Sea Lord of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. I am charged with leading the Admiralty with the guidance of the Grand Tide. This here is my bodyguard and personal advisor-“

“Locus,” Said the armored man.

“Locus, yes. I believe we have quite some things to discuss. Your ship’s state… it is quite an upsetting sight, frankly I have no idea how it’s staying afloat.”

“It’s a long story, sir.” Captain Ash said with a short, annoyed sigh.

Doyle nodded. “Naturally, naturally. But regardless, it is necessary we discuss it. We’ll escort you to our ship, Captain Ash. We have much to discuss. And if you can be prepared for a hearing as well, Lieutenant O’Riley, we would be most obliged.”

“Certainly, sir.” Captain Ash nodded. “I’m afraid I require some assistance-“

“Oh, do not fret, Niner, not at all. We wouldn’t dream of causing more trouble for you.” Doyle snapped his fingers and several footmen came down the gangway to carry the makeshift litter up to the flagship.

O’Riley snapped the rest of the crew into order, and soon they carried on with carrying supplies and salvageable to the other ships.

“The Admiralty-“ Wash started.

“Yeah, I know.” Grif said. He stared up the flagship. “Either they’ve switched out the entire department or they’ve got something up their sleeves.”

“Doyle doesn’t seem like the kind of man who _can_ have something up his sleeve.” Church said, his first words for the entire day. Wash almost jumped at hearing him speak.

“We do not know for sure.” He said after he had collected himself slightly. “But I am glad that they seem amicable at the very least. Perhaps we can leave for our quest with a better conscious, then. I will see if we can receive transport to the harbor. I need to send this report as quickly as we possibly can.”

They managed to find transport on the first ship back, as a matter of fact. Wash stood at the prow of the ship, pacing back and forth on the forecastle deck.

“By the mountains, Wash, stop doing that shit. You’re stressing me out.” Tucker said, rolling his eyes. “You can’t pace your way to the harbor, just stand still.”

“You can endure it, I am sure.” Wash said as he continued to pace.

The strip of land was starting to form in front of them. Wash could catch sight of mountains with verdant forests surrounding them, of white beaches and a traffic of beautiful warships, canoes and fishing boats that would put Tempest to shame. The ship barely needed to navigate through them though, as every ship seemed to hurry to get out of their way. Even those moored further up front seemed to try their best to unanchor themselves in order to give the Admiralty’s ships the right of way.

Normally, Wash would apply the beautiful surroundings to his memory with an artistic interest, as the architecture that started to form on the horizon was something entirely new to him. Normally, he would’ve loved to, at the very least, bring up his sketch book to make some simple sketches he could later improve on. Now, he only stared at the pier where Grif had said the express schooners were moored.

As they neared, he only exchanged the quickest of explanations to the rest of the Guild of where he was going and where he was going to meet them before he climbed down the steps to be on the first longboat to the harbor.

Seagulls and other birds he had never seen before shrieked and trilled as he neared the pier, and the waters beneath him was a beautiful shade of light blue that normally would’ve had him delighted and excited. Now, he only cast a glance down to the clear waters beneath him as he climbed up the rungs of the ladder, and thoroughly ignored a sailor as the latter called for him to help them unload before he took off.

He fixed his entire focus on one of the express schooners moored not too far away from him, and he ran around the complicated maze of bridges and walkways of the piers to get to the smaller ship. A woman seemed to be jotting down notes as a sailor went through bags and bags of letters. A line of people holding parchments and belongings to be shipped stood ready to give their things to the woman in the front.

 _I’m gonna make it. I can send the report to the Delta now_!

Only then did he slow down, and approached the line with a hurried step instead of a sprint, his adrenaline still up and his heart beating fast.

Then someone grabbed his shoulder from behind and swung him around. An apology was at his lips at first, thinking he had somehow cut in line or done something wrong, as simple as standing in line seemed to have been.

“Took you long enough, Wash.”

The words echoed in his brain as his apology quickly died in his mouth. It felt dry and clammy at the same time, and the report almost slipped from his hand. He blinked, and then blinked again.

A woman stood in front of him, hand still clasping his shoulder. Her hair was short and light-brown, with light streaks in it from her time in the sun. A huge smile painted her lips, and her teeth seemed even whiter against her tanned, but also somewhat red, skin. Beneath a discreet travel cloak was gear in a familiar mix of brown and whites.

Wash could barely breathe, and the name came out in a whisper,

“Connie?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am ending this volume on a cliffhanger because I am, in fact, that bitch™
> 
> Alrightie then, friends, we have some plans ahead :D  
> Uni is a bit intense and it has, naturally, made writing volume II a bit difficult. I hope I can start posting it sometime this summer, but you never know with life. BUT, that being said, I have written some backgrounds and extra scenes that I think I'll release in a separate volume for whoever's interested. So far we have Simmons's backstory ready to go, currently writing on Grif's~
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos, it's been a great motivation during the OH SO MANY moments of writer's block during this volume. Stay safe, see you soon~


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